TO KEN

I awake no rush
clothes face teeth hair
downstairs start the fire
then crackers a smear of tahini
slivered tofu with dead herbs
apple slices music.

Over black coffee check
the latest numbers figure out
new mortality rates
mind gasping
each time it tries to touch
this ungraspable cataclysm.

Bring in logs
not enough left to last
this damned spring cold
sweep the wood chips
survey the problems
the mind spasms the heart rends.

Evening now and the mood sinks
daytime it heaved and plunged
I wrote and posted five short poems
slowly resuming work
the Black Spots
acquiring new significance.

A month ago we had glorious hope
take on the bastards change the world
then an eyeblink
an airless free-fall
time compression
house arrest.

Now we wash hands
wash again again again
out Black Spot
of judgement
while having a good chat
with god.

– Diane Sophrin
  Vermont, 3.18.20

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