I would not start with the cruel creep of the virus
the sickened hours, the unkept home, the ragged breath in new
lungs, the light dimmed, the small human rains,
the unthinkable thought now the only thought
clinging to the underside of every unwashed word rancid
in the moonless dark, or the little temperature gun—though why
call it a gun when its only measurement is life?—assessing
his heat, her heat, our smokeless signature, I would not start
with this, nor the medicine & toys & water dropped off
a week into our worsening, the bruised embrace of bodies
daring to heal, no, not that either. I would start with his squeak
of delight after he wakes. O creation! The light in his eyes!
The tremendous meaning of it in a plague-ridden world.
In any world. I would start with the moment
I broke and cried, cried, cried, loosening my death
grip on sorrow, if only for a cascade of seconds, each shorter
than the last. From there I would slide out through the rainy night,
the slick stones, the cold air, and into the almost renewal
of the unit block, the crowded concrete almost romantic
with the sweat of angels. I would stand there
with every unwanted reader, every spirit and ancestor,
until morning and the effort I made to feed my beloved,
her happy crunching, the bread giving way, giving in.
Who could ask for more than to please her
and for the pleasure to be audible, a thickness—I have, you know,
asked for more, asked for health, asked for relief,
I’m God’s greediest little pig and I don’t care, I’ll keep asking
because I’ve heard my child cough, my joy coughs little bullets
& no feeling can survive it, no pride, no shame—let me start again
a-shiver with an image for lovers, a global pinboard, my name
tagged to it. Let me start with being claimed, stamped on, her sweet
possessive growl. Let me start with his body curled next to his mother,
little comma extending the sentence of her, their twinned
breaths. What else darling? What more
can I give you?
