Easter of the Pandemic, 2020
Pandemic Poetry
Plastic pastel clamshell eggs
tucked into bunches
of bright green grass,
when I was a child
some held dollar bills,
and we’d run across the yards,
wicker baskets swinging wild,
staining the bottoms of our slacks
and our Sunday dresses,
white frilly socks poking
from polished black slippers,
as we danced ourselves dizzy
trying to find those lucky prizes.
Today, Boris Johnson rose
from his hospital bed,
his skull wrapped
in blonde Easter grass
and someone believed
themselves to be clever,
the first person ever
to make the joke
about a zombie Jesus.
The church lawns feel
like graveyards,
all quiet except for the birds,
and even the towns
ignoring the isolation orders
do so with heads full of doubt.
Is that the ash I taste
from the volcano in Krakatoa,
its plume nine miles high,
drifting like charcoal smoke
from behind the neighbor’s fence,
where they keep hushing the children
who only want to laugh?
It’s difficult not to think
about the cost of disobedience,
aisles of grocery stores
still fragrant with chocolate
waiting to be marked down,
when anyone today
walking out of a hospital
holds that special light,
their eyes damp and earnest
as the heart of a clown.
__________
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