Emily Hockaday
Last Breath

I think of my own breath
and what would happen
if I exhaled in space. It is not
romantic, but I can’t help
feeling drawn to it. The inky dark,
the utter quiet, objects moving—
and me one of them. Out in
the Kuiper Belt, planetoids
school like fish. They glitter—
frozen ornaments moving
in a loose, massive donut.
Here at home, my orbit
is getting tighter, smaller,
less important. Sixty-three days
of isolation, and I am hardening
to ice. My atmosphere is thinning,
it is harder and harder
to draw breath. I am
cold. My daughter places hot hands
on my cheeks. She says,
I’m not sad. Every time she asks
if the germs are still out,
if the playgrounds are closed,
I lose more heat. I don’t know
how to keep spinning. I’m losing sight
of what I should be orbiting.
Which way is the Sun?

—Submitted on 05/16/2020

Emily Hockaday is the author of Vocabulary (Red Bird Chaps, forthcoming), Space on Earth (Grey Book Press, 2019), Ophelia: A Botanist’s Guide (Zoo Cake Press, 2015), What We Love & Will Not Give Up (Dancing Girl Press, 2014), and Starting a Life (Finishing Line Press, 2012). Her poems have appeared in Newtown Literary, The Maine Review, Salt Hill, and other journals. Hockaday is an associate editor at Analog Science Fiction and Fact Magazine and Asimov’s Science Fiction. Based in Queens, New York, she is online at emilyhockaday.com and on Twitter @E_Hockaday.

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Alexandra Méndez
A Song of Solace

Just remember:
We will congregate again.
There will be plays again.
There will be class again.
We will hold hands again.
We will brush coats again.

When all this passes, we will not be the same.
The ghost-imprint of masks we wore,
the mental gauge of six feet
sounding alarm bells when it shortens—
they will linger, but they will fade.

We will learn to touch again,
share the space of the world again.
And a gleeful little girl
born in quarantine
will laugh like spring and run into our arms.

—Submitted on 03/31/2020

Alexandra Méndez‘s poetry, fiction, essays, and reviews have appeared in Tuesday Magazine, Dudley Review, Public Books, Harvard Review Online, Language Magazine, Harvard Political Review, and Harvard Crimson. Raised in Decatur, Ga., she holds a BA from Harvard University, where she received a Henry Russell Shaw Traveling Fellowship. Méndez is a doctoral candidate in Latin American and Iberian cultures at Columbia University.

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Connie LaBouff
Coronavirus Rx for Trump

I write you a script for Divine understanding.
A purple pill of royal spiritual wholeness.
Your greed and hate destroy this world through centuries of time.
Many have come illuminating the virtues of greatness.
Empathy, Kindness, Love and Understanding.
Yet you block your hearts with the things you cannot take.
The gleam of your coins and trophies blind your vision to humanity.
But be warned this pill comes at a price.
The side effects of enlightenment may burn you.
Your eyes may tear with the sadness for the world’s pain.
Your heart may break for the injustice that enslaved nations and stole the innocence of children.
But the outcome of clarity is your everlasting ripple of compassion through eternity.
Immortality is not found in the achievement of power.
But only in the touching of souls.

—Submitted on 05/17/2020

Connie LaBouff writes: “I am the wife of a frontline Covid-19 internal medicine doctor. She and I are adjusting to life with our four kids in this time of coronavirus while she works full-time caring for and testing patients for a Federally Qualified Health Center dedicated to compassionate care of the homeless, low income and substance abuse disorder patients in Camden, NJ.”

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Caleb Collins
Necessary

The man on the pedal has stopped now
the world stands still
The man on the pedal has stopped to nurse a cough with bed rest and water
Now the whole world is filled with dread
And about to falter
The man on the pedal is now dead and the world stands stagnant
so begrudgingly still so exasperatingly slow, indefinitely asphyxiated, excruciatingly inert
The man on the pedal is dead,
Killed by a million executioners,
never to be seen again, or thought of or remembered for keeping the world spinning as long as he could, never will his name be put on a wall of heroes who sacrificed all they had for us
Instead he was deemed expendable because he was useful
Necessary because he was not necessary

—Submitted on 05/18/2020

Caleb Collins is a high school student who lives in York County, Pa., and attends the Pennsylvania Leadership Charter School. This would appear to be their first publication.

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Francesca Ferrauto
Reading Is All I Do

I can only read so much German before my head hurts;
Yet, now in Berlin, reading is all I do.

„Warum das Coronavirus in Italien tödlicher ist“
a newspaper title I read in February
uneasy I call my family—they’re fine
Mamma says to buy protective masks

„Deutschland führt vorerst keine Schutzmasken Pflicht“
I read, so I hold tight to my money
I’ll buy toilet paper instead

„Corona-Krise: «Noch ist die Ruhe vor dem Sturm»“
the radio says in my German class,
I’ll stock up on some canned food—I think
Papà asks if I bought the protective masks

„RKI meldet mehr als 4000 Neuinfektionen“
I feel fine, I’ll eat my veggies maybe,
spinach never tasted so good

„Deutschland macht Grenzen dicht“
perhaps they’ll refund my flights—
should have gone home for Christmas
mia sorella* shows me funny masks on Insta

„Corona jetzt in fast allen Bundesländern“
caressing my health insurance card
I’m young, I’m healthy, I wash my hands

„Corona-Zustände wie in Italien auch in Deutschland“
I’ve social distanced for long enough—haven’t I?
we have flour, yeast and cat litter for a month
Schatzi touches my hand and smiles

„Erste deutsche Stadt erlässt Mundschutzpflicht“
Calling my family—hey, avevate ragione
I should have bought those masks

—Submitted on 03/31/2020

Francesca Ferrauto‘s poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in Gravitas, Beyond Words, From Whispers to Roars, Berlino Magazine, Il Mitte, and other journals. Italian-born, Ferrauto has lived in London and Kyoto, and now lives in Berlin, where she is a digital editor. She serves on the board of the Women Writing Berlin Lab.

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Renie Rivas
Life on a Small Scale

Swimming in too much space or not enough
I hope the people on the outside will take care of me
I have what I need for now
My gills are fine for now
Can only think of now
Every then and later and thing is scary and big
Too much to comprehend
Still laying eggs for no one
I do it because we’re supposed to
Not because it makes sense

—Submitted on 05/17/2020

Renie Rivas is an actress and comedian in Los Angeles. She is a graduate of the Advanced Improv Program at Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre in Los Angeles. Rivas has contributed to a number of books for humor publisher The Devastator. @renie_rivas on Instagram.

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Barbara J. Schwegman
Pandemic

What I think of
are the stories of my mother and father.

My father,
turning off all the unused lights
that my sister and I had left on.
My mother,
stocking canned goods on the pantry shelves.
My father,
taking the leftovers from our plates,
“Give it here, I’ll finish it.”

Both of them,
remembering a time
when there was not enough.
Born in the early part of the last century,
living through World War I,
the Great Depression,
ration cards through WWII.

As children,
did my parents have
indoor plumbing?

Was toilet paper a luxury?
Or were the pages
of the Sears Roebucks in use?
There were mentions of corn cobs
And other substitutes.

I hear my father’s voice
saying more than once,
“You don’t know how good
you’ve got it.”
He’s right.
The Depression saw breadlines
on almost every block.
Toilet paper was not as important
As food,
keeping the electricity on,
paying the rent.
Starvation and despair were commonplace.

There is one thing though,
they did have
that we cannot have now.

Human touch.

A hug from a grandmother,
a visit from an aunty, cousins,
uncles.
Gatherings of large and small
families.
Sitting on the front porch
with neighbors.

Having face to face conversations
with friends.
Sharing meals,
dancing cheek to cheek,
singing in choirs or just a duet.

Hopefully, this virus
will not take too many lives.
Hopefully, this isolation
will not scare us
from hugging friends once more,
when we can.

Hopefully, when this ends—
and it will—
we will remember
what it’s like to be together.
And we will cherish that.

And we won’t give a damn
about toilet paper.

—Submitted on 03/31/2020

Barbara J. Schwegman writes: “I have been a writer of poetry my entire life, but have never felt comfortable sharing with anyone other than my close friends. Last night I was practicing social distancing by porch sitting with friends, and shared “Pandemic” with them. They encouraged me to share it with a larger audience.”

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Samantha Fain
Golden Shovels After Trump’s Comments on the Coronavirus

#2

people didn’t worry enough / all casual like yeah so what / stores ran out of bleach / this
meant people were using it / either to clean / or drink / and die / the real question is
why the spring-breakers still guzzle beers on the beach / when they’re pretty much just
multiplying the petri dish / playing chicken in the ocean / when they should be stiff / a
skewer of sunburnt bodies bottled / like glued ships permanently / during this temporary
vacation / a lot of us ask one another / if we’re bored / if we’re surviving this moment
of crisis / of chaos / of death / and stuff / and our answers usually always consist of
waiting it out / you know / eating carrots / sucking oranges / really trying this time

—Submitted on 05/17/2020

Samantha Fain is an undergraduate student studying creative writing at Franklin College. Her work has appeared in Rattle Poets Respond, The Indianapolis Review, SWWIM, Utterance, and other journals. She tweets at @samcanliftacar.

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Wendy Grossman
Covid-19 Exquisite Facebook Collage Poems

3/16/20

sorry extroverts!
chuck d. might not
have known what
this world is
coming to but I do
I hope you’re prepared
there is a
crucial point missing
I’m trying to
understand how
800 people died
in italy yesterday
this “19” is
killing people even
if they are
not infected
there is so much
income being lost
right now by
so many people
we take
everything for granted
we were asked
to stay home and
we didn’t
soon, we will be
under 24 hour curfew
next comes martial law
so I gotta stay inside
once this
is over…
hopefully we’ll
remember our
spiritual equality, because
infections and
death numbers don’t
give a damn about
our economic status,
nationality or race
this corona virus will definitely kill racism

A cut-and-paste collage poem made up of excerpts from my friends’ status updates on Facebook. The contributors are Terri McKenzie, Ron Petty, Jr., Steph Sanchez, Linda Wood Gillis, Rodney Mason, Kelly Quinn, and Hakim Mutlaq.

3/22/20

hello God? are you there? it’s me, Jen
dear diary,
day 9 of pandemic
weepy today
feeling sad for
the world
my anxiety is
through the roof
this is not normal
every single
human being you
pass by
today is
fighting to find
peace and to
push back fear
to get through their
daily tasks
without breaking down
in the produce section or
in the carpool line or
at the
post office
we don’t know
what the
future holds
how are you
holding up

A cut-and-paste collage poem made up of excerpts from my friends’ status updates on Facebook. The contributors are Jennifer DeSisto, Beth Stanton Silva, Heather Parsons, Dale Edwyna Smith, Karen Oldham Kidd, Meg Sullivan.

3/25/20

social isolation from
still life
the death of convenience
access, ease
and freedom and
proximity as
we know it
question:
are we
still pre-apocalypse or
full blown apocalypse
america isn’t
set up to
let any
of us breathe
we can’t return to
normal
because the
normal that we had
was precisely
the problem
but I’m sure there
are so many more
factors its almost
impossible to
foresee them all
at least I get to
hear my daughter’s beautiful
singing voice
I have been preparing
my whole life for
a time such as this

A cut-and-paste collage poem made up of excerpts from my friends’ status updates on Facebook. The contributors are Joan Merwyn, Adrienne A. Wallace, Vatic Kuumba, Karen Oldham-Kidd, ShaRhonda Knott-Dawson, Jennifer Elizabeth Iwasyk, Deb K. Mason

—Submitted on 03/30/2020

Wendy Grossman‘s poems appear in Missing Providence: A Frequency Anthology (Frequency Writers, 2015), edited by Bed Williams. She is the author of the blog on race, Wendy Jane’s Soul Shake.

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Anindita Sarkar
Covid Dogs

Seldom a critic, he has a proclivity for chivalry
Kisses and cuddles from ladies he has earned
From Essex to Gloucestershire
Recruited for venerie, he shuns Coleridge’s delirium.
Concourse of six Labradors of fleecy visage,
Sheathed neither in PPE nor mask
But an ossified harness,
With an insignia bearing five-pointed stars
To rebuild the blight-stricken city,
Unlike Walter Raleigh’s ill-mannered hydrophobic dog.
They say he can sniff out the virus
Alumnus of the University of Pennsylvania.
Diagnostic tools or rather let’s say Don Juan on a conquest!
They neither snarl at nor bite a Muslim mortal.
Captain America the scion of our Marvel Universe
Is supine in his resplendent in-ground pool
Or, shuffling channels on the television of Brooklyn Heights
Occasionally ruminating on global crisis.
Nurses in death-stricken cities feel out of place
Like penguins in Kansas City Zoo of America.
They are on the verge of quitting,
Appalled by the massively ascending casualty rates
And to revel with their families
In colourful robes and tinted apparels
Unencumbered by the latex stinking gloves
Within their cordoned little houses.
Aren’t these furry companions astounded
By the ghastly corpses in polythene bags?
Alas! They don’t possess the power of self-expression
Yet they never lift a morsel without a permission.
Can they heft the stacks of money they receive as donation?
With their quadruple paws always on patrol?
Perhaps they don’t believe in knavishly cosseting assets in their coffer.
But will there be a Matthew Arnold
To canonize this Geist with a Valediction.

—Submitted on 05/17/2020

Anindita Sarkar is pursuing a master of philosophy degree in comparative literature from Jadavpur University in Kolkata, India.

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