“”Hope” is a thing with feathers...”
Only, I don’t think it is.
See, feathers mean it’s a flighty thing
And belie its true belligerence.
Hope may yet have feathers,
But forget not the claws.
Hope is a thing with brambles;
Hope has a tendency to stick in crops.
This little burr adheres to the underside,
Never noted unless poked.
It clings tightly in the smallest gap
And can’t be ignored once evoked.
Now, I grant you, Hope may seem rather rare,
But lay on your stomach at night; you’ll find that it’s there.

No treaty is negotiable with the eager viral assassin.

Doubt the truth of gossip. What's sadder than the unreasonable sucker?

Tribal outcries and worldly conceits are not impenetrable refuges.

May you all be sheltered and safe and may modern alchemy protect you.

May you have what you need and be happy.

We will rise or fall together.

Seeing someone every day
is not seeing them,
not in the way of knowing
ourselves, marked by a milestone on a rocky trail
or a spring growing back with azaleas and pollen
and a canopy of elms.

Instead the confetti of moments we’ve traveled together
whirl into the patternless vortex of now
and we don’t know where we find ourselves.
  
Yet I thought of you the other day
and a painting you gave to me when we first loved.
It showed a man diving into the ocean toward mermaids
Who sat on an island, watching.

Next to the image were words from a Jerry Butler song,
“Isle of the Sirens,” about a ship’s crewman lured by temptation.  
"The voices got louder
They sing beautiful things in my ear
I must go to that island of women
I must see these creatures I hear
Love is blind and desires have no fear."
The captain warns him that surrendering
to the siren song is a betrayal.
"Keep course, cried the Captain
Ignore them and let them be
Straight ahead, cried the Captain
Set on by and stay free
Remember laws of mutiny"
The man jumps anyway.
"'Old man, you know nothing
Of temptation
And desires are heaven to me.'
And off he leaped into the sea."

When you showed this to me, at first I thought I
was the man, giving in to temptation.
Only later did I understand that you were the man,
A black woman hearing a siren song
from a white man who lured her with desire and love.
We know the fate of those who leap at the sirens’ lure.
You broke the laws of mutiny.  

Something in my daily cogito has kept this memory close,
reminds me that you leapt
And you’re still here.

Here we are now, in the time of COVID-19,
alone together, shut out of the world,
sleeping in each other’s shadow
bored by each other’s demons,
walking past the blank of each other’s  mirrors.
But I still hear that song.  
Can you still hear it, love?  
Would you still make the leap?

God is not human.
Only humans can **** and
mourn in the same day.

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not huddled together, holding hands,
as a meteor races towards us.
But quarantined separately in rooms,
as a virus eats you slowly from inside.

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not from a single gunshot to your head,
as you revolt against bullies on streets.
But from a slow drowning in your guilt,
as a voice asks you why didn’t you?

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not from a bomb exploding in the mall,
as you buy a new summer wardrobe.
But from a slow burn deep inside you,
as you ignore the haunted eyes around.

Maybe the world doesn’t end after all,
Not from guns, bombs or stray meteors,
as you wake up to sunny blue skies.
But how will you face yourself tomorrow,
with all this death festering inside?