Brittney Corrigan
Social Distancing
There are animals who can pass their bodies
through openings we cannot even dream
of putting an eye to. We lock the doors,
forget what sifts through keyholes
like smoke. A rat will determine if it can fit
its cylindrical body through a tunnel or hole
by using its whiskers as a guide. An octopus
has no bones. Can pour its tentacled form
into most anything, its beak being the one
solid gauge. If I hold up a yardstick and you
take the other end, we are half the appropriate
distance apart. Your body will not transfer
anything to my body. Our hands will not
become either weapons or balms. I send
my voice to you like an octopus escaping
its captivity. I sniff the air like a rodent,
like anything could catch me. Like I could
find a burrow where nobody’s home.
—Submitted on 03/26/2020
Brittney Corrigan is the author of Navigation (The Habit of Rainy Nights Press, 2012) and 40 Weeks (Finishing Line Press, 2012). Daughters is forthcoming from Airlie Press in 2021. Her poems have appeared in Split Rock Review, The Poeming Pigeon, Rattle, MockingHeart Review, The Ekphrastic Review, and other journals and anthologies. Raised in Colorado, Corrigan has lived in Portland, Ore., since 1990. She holds a BA from Reed College, where she manages special events. Online at brittneycorrigan.com.
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