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.
Poems by Cynthia Atkins, Jose Alcantara, Judith Alexander Brice, Michael T. Young, Sydney Lea, Charlie Brice, John Samuel Tieman, and Adrian Rice.
Because it’s too late now
to sound the alarm
over the lack of alarm,
over the sudden
wealth of it.
As it is, we’re quarantined in cages,
rooms, apartments, city houses, ranches
in the suburbs, the further out you go
the more chance to forget, to forgo
every caution you’ve ever not taken.
You don’t have many days to stay, traveler.
After my brother died, his wife was sure he was living
inside their cat, Rocky. He’s in there, she’d say, staring into
those blank, yellow eyes. Isma’il? Isma’il? Can you hear me?