Leslie Anne Mcilroy: Zoosk | The Pandemic

God is the biggest problem.
That and Steeler fans, all prayers
and gear. The profile is witty,
likely bald with a stunning
jaw line, but then religion rears 
it’s holy head and I swipe left,
though I think I could compete 
with god, given I make bread.
 
Still, I only convert milk 
into yogurt. Then this man 
appears, all ball-capped and legs 
with a warm beer. He watches 
Jeopardy and National Geographic, 
cooks for his mom and loves cars 
(I am forgiving). He drives a stick.
Lets me drive. I am driven.
 
We write, we phone, we drink, 
we call the president asshole.
We fuck. We make pasta 
and pozole. We run and lord, 
he chops the wood in my yard 
for fire. If that’s not love, I don’t 
know what is. I am burning for this 
after six years of god, in her black
and gold glory. And did I mention
he actually wants to be catholic? 
You have sinned, I say, wiping his cum 
from my mouth. I have done worse,
he says and leaves for mass.
 
But then the gov’ner says stay 
at home and his mom is 90 
and my son’s boyfriend is immune 
deficient. We stay put, apart, 
constant in longing. And that is all
fine, my friends, except the dying 
part. Death all around love’s 
little sprouting head. And no one
will say it out loud. No one will say
magic only comes maybe once 
in six years and well, don’t touch 
your face. Don’t fall. 

Copyright 2020 Leslie Anne Mcilroy