March Twenty Twenty

We have all been sentenced a final call.

This plague is not our Frankenstein's monster;
No product of man, potioned by neglect.

But a season, cycle of existence.

The fingers jut out remarkably fast.

Who’s fault is it anyway? cough.wash.cough.

Death moves closer by one second or ten.

Never immune. Forever marching on.

Bruised arms cradle those infants who will die.

Old men, too. Have we forgotten our creed:

Memento Mori. Forgotten the grave?

The man who said, “Turn to the Holocaust…”

He was right. 

Pain is an absolute. When buried deep–

It will rumble to an atomic blow.

Same for raw fear, held tight in sweaty hands.

They feed on darkness and want. hide.take.cheat.

Shine bright with sun and truth. They disinfect.

The virus urges the sickness of self.

More than fearsome malady of body. 

As though we arrived here by sweat.toil.sweat.

No, some are born to huts, mosquitoes, dirt.

Some stockpile ramen, tissue paper,

Life-giving water, face masks: fire breathers. 

But we are all just here. Where God plopped us.

Auspicious or challenged in our locales.

We each one gasp for air from the other. 

All determined to revel in this world. 

Oh friend fear, fuel beauty and bravery! 

Instead of your cloaked, clenched, foul stagnation.

If our bliss and safety aren’t held– fastened,

Fear’s subtle, treacherous voice pours poison,

Dreams grim. No visions for eternity.

The decadent choice is not hate or kin.

Condole fear. The planets aren’t stayed by grasp.

Steal joy from the panic and the rubble.

If death comes: our souls refuse confinement.

If death comes: a life explodes its refrain.

A hymn to be heard for a million years.

If cancer, plague, war, suicide, befall–

Death is friend to the mender who absolves. 

That frank tour guide– ever onwards and up.