Photo by J. R. Korpa
Isolation
After “All,” by Jorie Graham
D. Dina Friedman
The poet tells me I am one with the whirring fans,
the chopped-off heads, one step away
from the pandemic dead; one with the devil,
the divine; one to hold the line, and bend it,
end it. Why did God create viruses? Hurricanes?
What message in the rain stopping and starting,
frothing and farting, saying, drink me. Be
like Alice, tunneling down to find arrogant queens
grabbing for ephemera. Aprés moi, le déluge. Aprés moi,
le coeur arrêté. What will be left of the plush tomatoes
on their viny gallows? How large will the mushrooms sprout?
How do I get out of this locked gate called oneness?
I didn’t ask for this. Never signed up to cherish my body in health
or sickness, or for molecules that cleave and leave you breathless,
not from the gasping groans of love, but its antithesis:
mustachioed villain with cape and whip, lashing
the world to the railroad tracks, then driving the train.
After “All,” by Jorie Graham
D. Dina Friedman
The poet tells me I am one with the whirring fans,
the chopped-off heads, one step away
from the pandemic dead; one with the devil,
the divine; one to hold the line, and bend it,
end it. Why did God create viruses? Hurricanes?
What message in the rain stopping and starting,
frothing and farting, saying, drink me. Be
like Alice, tunneling down to find arrogant queens
grabbing for ephemera. Aprés moi, le déluge. Aprés moi,
le coeur arrêté. What will be left of the plush tomatoes
on their viny gallows? How large will the mushrooms sprout?
How do I get out of this locked gate called oneness?
I didn’t ask for this. Never signed up to cherish my body in health
or sickness, or for molecules that cleave and leave you breathless,
not from the gasping groans of love, but its antithesis:
mustachioed villain with cape and whip, lashing
the world to the railroad tracks, then driving the train.