Just heard that there has been another Covid-19 death in the state of Michigan. That makes three. A coworker showed me a video her daughter sent her--a huge convoy of National Guard trucks hauling tanks on flatbeds. Dozens of trucks. The numbers continue to grow. Shit's getting real.
Saint Marty needs more poetry in his life.
from Kyrie
by: Ellen Bryant Voigt
To be brought from the bright schoolyard into the house:
to stand by her bed like an animal stunned in the pen:
against the grid of the quilt, her hand seems
stitched to the cuff of its sleeve--although he wants
most urgently the hand to stroke his head,
although he thinks he could kneel down
that it would need to travel only inches
to brush like a breath his flushed cheek,
he doesn't stir: all his resolve,
all his resources go to watching her,
her mouth, her hair a pillow of blackened ferns--
he means to match her stillness bone for bone.
Nearby he hears the younger children cry,
and his aunts, like careless thieves, out in the kitchen.
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