Pandemic
Do you remember,
as the alarm bells were crying,
how we were silent in the radiant light,
our blood roiling red with the ruins of the sun.
Do you remember,
as the warnings were rising,
how we once lowered the moon
till it lay pale on our backs.
Do you remember,
as the virus spread across the world,
how once we curled, small, like a fiddlehead fern,
forgetting everything,
forgetting everything.
Elmhurst, O Elmhurst
Elmhurst, the only public hospital in New York State was founded to serve the poor in 1832.
It serves Western Queens County.
Elmhurst, O Elmhurst,
I did not know you in your mothering shift
of glass and mortar.
I ticked off your name in my mind
as you caught my ear on the morning radio:
“Elmhurst.”
This, as I authored my own survival.
Perhaps I may be one of the remnant.
Perhaps this wasting bane
may steal away on some wing
of the breeze.
But, no, Corona prefers to steal the air
from the ravaged world;
so that one day I saw on my 52 in. screen,
Elmhurst,
with an almost snake like refrigerated truck,
parked outside its venerable walls,
the vile work of Corona
unmasked,
by the shining light of day;
so that, the wretched of God gathered at the hem
of her cheerless garments.
The poor and the dead,
thronging around her.
She has mothered them for generations,
now they lie dead in the emergency room,
with none to kiss their brow.
She weeps over those who have waited so long
to be sheltered by her.
Yet she rejoices in those who leave her,
walking from her doors.
Elmhurst, O Elmhurst, I did not know you
in your mothering shift
of glass and mortar.
Yet now, now, I catch the genesis
of the most improbable invitation
on a wind that comes
out of the surly darkness:
“Breathe, breathe.
I will keep your going out
and your coming in.”
This, for the poor who gather around
the shabby fringes of the earth.
This, for you, O Elmhurst,
form this time on,
and forevermore.
Such Tender Mercies
My Beloved lies deep,
My Beloved lies deep
within this tomb that does not
even bear his name.
Silent, finally, he rests,
his body mutilated.
anointed
with
fragrant oils
with such endearments
such tender mercies,
by the hands of
the women who
shared in the dust,
the rains, the thunderous
storms of his journeys.
Now in death they were
nearer to him than they
had ever been in life.
In sacred intimacy they
wrapped his poor body
in white linen graveclothes.
Now he would rest,
Surely they left the tomb weeping,
on that day before new creation.
But for now,
My Beloved lies sleeping.
the sleep of death.
in such tender mercies,
such tender mercies.
Reblogged this on poetsunionus and commented:
Excellent well accomplished material by the poetess! Also resolution for the literate peoples!
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