Jeanne-Marie Osterman
White
New York City, March 2020
Higher than normal temperatures have Yoshino cherries
in Central Park blossoming early. White flowerets
fall like snow in next day’s storm
turning paths
I walk
so white
it hurts my eyes—
branches, a network of wintry nerves.
Outside Lenox Hill Hospital,
white refrigerated trailers
are lined up the length of the block—
the super-luxe kind used for wardrobe and makeup on location shoots.
Chutes at each end eat white
body bags,
stacked three wide
x three deep
by knights in white gowns.
A friend texts
u have 2 laf
c humor in this
Sends video
of woman
wearing white
thong as mask.
East Meadow of Central Park, white with tents—
emergency field hospital for virus patient overflow.
Christians only, non-gay—white.
Tent flaps swirl like the white skirt I wear
dancing to Obtalá, god of Orishas,
most beloved god
because he doesn’t see humans as imperfect beings
who cause their own suffering;
he blames himself, his own negligence—
loves his white wine—
imperfect god.
—Submitted on 09/23/2020
Jeanne-Marie Osterman is the author of There’s a Hum (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and Shellback (Paloma Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in Borderlands, Cathexis Northwest, California Quarterly, The Madison Review, Bluestem, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Our Poetica: A Testament to the Shared Uniqueness of the Poetic Experience (Cathexis Northwest Press, 2019), and Of Burgers and Barrooms: Stories and Poems (Main Street Rag, 2017). Osterman lives in New York City, and serves as poetry editor for Cagibi.
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