In every field we are building rooms, seemingly made of air. Where
is everyone? you ask. Tucked
inside, comes the answer, tucked
inside. Our voices
echo across the emptiness
as everything slowly
unplugs. Sometimes we don’t like
the angels God sends,
the preacher said, when we
used to go to church (this one
wears a crown, this one is
a thorn). Today I woke up to
snow, the flakes so white they nearly
blinded me. The Governor speaks
inside an empty room today at noon,
every day at noon.
(washing his hands like Lady Macbeth,
washing his hands like a fly) Go
outside, he promises, & you will
kill someone you love. “Overflowing”
is a word we hear more & more.
Overflowing. Overflowing.
Overflowing. What was here? we ask,
passing an empty storefront. Is ____
still alive?, we ask, but then
regret it. The low
flowers of spring have just
appeared, a chain of purple
pushing up from the dark (anemone,
gentian, creeping
charlie) See you
on the other side, little flower. (regret)
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Imagen de portada: Tiempos de pandemia. Fotografía de Byronv2, 2020. CC