A Sonnet For My Lungs
Forgive me for thinking you’re always just there
Appreciation arises in times of despair
You’re wonderful, ordinary, yet vital organs
I have them and so did J.P Morgan
But he’s gone and I’m still here, thanks to you
And every, wonderful involuntary thing you do
You’re definitely not just a couple of sacks flung
By a lazy heart over the ribs. No. You’re inimitable, you’re my lungs.
If you had them, I’d love to shake your moist hands
In gratitude for how you meet all my demands
Morning, noon, and night, fast and slow, at any rate
You expand, you contract, you oxygenate
You guys are heroes, you’re truly front line, none greater
You wonderful baggy pals, my first and, I hope, only ventilators.
Confessions of a Virus #2
April will be our best month yet
Business is exceptionally good
We’re known in every neighborhood
We’re doing exceptionally well, we’re multiplying
Which make this the high season of your dying
We’ve got you stumped despite your trying
Everyone’s using new words like “intubate”
And we’ve set up business in every state.
Yet we take nothing for granted
We know you’re hunting us even as you panic
You’re after us with all your science and your art
We’re always unwelcome, which makes us smart
So, sure, save yourselves, continue to isolate
We’ll be back next April, when we mutate.
Small Comfort Food
The bodies without breath shut down
They’re carried away and placed in the ground
Years pass, the shrouds shred
Time for the contribution of the dead
The rains come and make the sediment
That enriches the field
So it makes the wheat
That feeds the child, you, and I
In this manner, those we have lost not only rise
As in yeast, but are also eaten
So that we may not die but instead
Live and be nourished throughout our lives
Until we ourselves, in turn, become bread.