The next poem from Ellen Bryant Voigt's Kyrie is a little sobering.
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.
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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