Erased, by Drew Myron
It’s not over. The pandemic rages on. Science, news, first-person accounts . . . it’s so clear the virus is still full of speed. So why do I feel I’m alone in living bad news?
Because it is spring, and we stretch long and healthy beneath a healing sun.
Because we are head-back laughing, drinking in normal, trying to make our mouths move with ease.
Because most of us are healthy and cannot imagine frail bodies, faulty lungs, breathlessness. But I do. Don’t you?
In the meantime, I’m trying for happy. I plant flowers and picnic on the patio. I’m writing but every line is sad and beyond my control. Is this truth or habit? Yes, this song is old, the refrain tired.
Yet, and still — we’re in National Poetry Month! Much to my surprise, I’m finding pleasure in poetry readings by Zoom. (Shout out to RinkyDink Press and Oregon Poetry Association). And I’m reading and listening to new-to-me poets, and savoring this poem by Lee Herrick, and this poem by Tina Cane.
As always, and again, I’m reading and writing through. How about you?
Erased
Days vanished
without wonder.
Hope seemed a
very long desert.
The worst of it
is mourning for
cheerful decency.
- Drew Myron