chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: self-quarantine

found poem: Everything

found poem: past

found poem: when the self

found poem: emotions

found poem: heir

found poem: the stay-at-home

found poem: I’m taking a break

found poem: hands

found poem: precarious

found poem: hope

found poem: But, if you…

found poem: place

found poem: I saw May

found poem: going on…

found poem: in the world

found poem: our afternoons

found poem: holed up

found poem: we Wrote

found poem: your very nose


The evolution

For a while, in the first months
of the pandemic, you feared your hands:

that they might be the engine of your destruction,
grab from the air, from book or doorknob,

newspaper or broccoli, the errant cell calling
to your lungs. Those hands, lathered, rinsed,

laundry hung out in a dust storm, dragged back in,
washed again. And your face, itching, yearning

for them, abandoned lover. Later, the air itself
became suspect and you held your breath on the trail,

in the grocery store, at the mailbox. Yet, shocked
by your isolation, your fear of contamination,

you came to enjoy the whims of unstructured days,
the naps and chickadees and jigsaw puzzles.

You called old friends, cleaned cupboards, ticked tasks
off your list, learned new technology. You had

no passport, no visa for the country called the future.
The microorganism would stamp your documents,

or not. So you gardened as if someone else
might harvest the beautiful purple peapods,

the lettuce, even the sudden radishes.
And then, as predictions became less dire,

you discovered a new fear:
that life would return to normal.

© J.I. Kleinberg

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