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Pandemic, March 25, 2020A Literary Perspective Considering the End of Man~ By Mike Aleman

3/31/2020

Like ash from Auschwitz ovens,
light snow descends over the city,
and for the first time since
the quarantine began, I feel I could die.
Robert Frost debated whether the world
would end in fire or ice,
T. S. Eliot, with a bang or a whimper,
I’m thinking by virus,
enemy unseen by the naked eye.
Are we are living, The Decameron,
and telling tales to pass the last days?
Living Poe’s, Red Death, frantically dancing
in a final, desperate burst of life?
Perhaps it’s time to read, The Wife of Bath’s Tale,
or other tales of knights assailed by death.
Or is it time to throw in the towel,
and in Prufrockian fashion dig our graves
with a garden trowel?
The writers of the world have long pondered
the end of man, but considering our present travail,
I side with William Faulkner, and believe that
“…man will not merely endure: he will prevail.”

Author Bio:
Mike Aleman grew up in a Mexican-American household of readers. His father read Spanish and English, his mother only English. They spent many happy and fulfilling summer hours at the library and its park-like surroundings. He became an English teacher, taught lit and writing for 30 years, and had a grand time. Now retired, he writes at will, and read stories, novels and poetry over KPBX, Spokane Public Radio.

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What Old Women Need~ By Joan Halperin

3/26/2020

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An old woman needs touch…to touch and be touched. That’s why she rings her hands together,
folds her hands at the movies and why she punches dough on a wooden board. It’s why she runs
her fingers over the hem of a skirt and explores her vagina at night. It is even why she adjusts her
glasses.
Once a man or another woman ran fingers along her thighs, her spine, her breasts, the contours of
her lips. Her body awoke time after time. Then perhaps her world became dry. Dreams were her
consolation.
An old woman without touch loses her sense of charity.
Come sit down beside me. I am an old woman but my juices still flow. You see my hand on
a book. My fingers trace the edges of the cover. He is inside the book. She is inside the book. I
carry them everywhere even though our lives were imperfect. I carry them, the parade of ghosts
who entered my life and disappeared.
Today I walked out on the patio and touched a tomato plant that will become fruitful mid-summer.
It is the late summer of my life. However, I am counting on another season. I will pick
up the plump red fruit. I will slice it. I will place a thin slice on the palm of my hand but I will
not squeeze it. No, I will study it as if it is a newborn child.

Author Bio:
Joan Halperin writes prose and fiction. She lives in a continuing care community in Canton, Ma. Here she writes and teaches creative writing to a group of residents in their eighties and nineties. She has been published in Persimmon Tree, Light Years, Rosebud Magazine, New York Quarterly, Confrontation and others.

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So Glad You're Not Here~ By Christie Tate

3/25/2020

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If you could see me right now, you might not recognize me.
I just slathered my hands with cucumber-melon flavored hand sanitizer
and scoured the desk with Clorox disinfectant wipes.
I have these products to keep myself safe,
to keep others safe. I would have used them to keep you safe,
if you were still here.

You know I’m not a germaphobe.
Remember that time I bit into an apple in the middle of Whole Foods--
I picked it right off the Granny Smith pyramid and chomped down?
“No, I don’t care how many people have touched this apple.”
My blood sugar had plummeted. I needed the sweetness,
germs and dirt be damned.

But the virus is spreading.
They’re saying it’s really bad.
And it’s going to get worse.
They say it attacks the lungs.
Hard on the elderly and the immuno-suppressed.
It would have been very hard on you, my sweet friend.

I walked down Washington Street on Friday, weeping
with relief that you don’t have to worry
or isolate
or call all your doctors the minute your throat tickles.
You don’t have to pour over articles, zoom in on the charts,
check your phone for hourly updates.

I’m so happy you’re not stuck in your apartment, as lovely
as the view of the curving Lake Shore Drive is, as lovely
as it is to watch cars zoom north and south by the glistening water.
How lonely you’d be.
How your husband would have driven you crazy, if it were just
the two of you and the animals.

But then I wept because you are gone.
And you’ll never know about any of this.
You’ll never see

The empty train car during rush hour.
The downtown streets empty of tourists and commuters.
The barren shelves at the drug store, the grocery store.
The fear and anxiety framing everyone’s eyes.
The swagger of the President brutally misleading the country.

I checked on your husband.
He’s sad and misses you.
So do the dogs, and
he assumes the cats too, but who can tell?
He too is relieved you are missing this and
Sad you’re gone.

How you would have marveled
at the people hoarding
water, toilet paper, pasta, chicken breasts.
This Godless world, I would have cried to you,
and you would have told me
to pay attention. To look
for other stories. To find the quiet stories humming
with charity, humanity, connection.

“Look for the love stories.”
“Think of the people who helped us get and stay sober.”
“Think of the hands that have held you, that still hold you, that will always hold you.”

If you were here,
Would we let ourselves bake cookies and dunk them in milk?
Would we say fuck it and go get tattoos?
Would we send each other YouTube videos of songs we love?

The clearest way to describe how upside down the world is right now
is not to point to all the things that are canceled,
including your beloved Cubs’ opening day, and
the opera house, and universities, and grammar schools,
But this:
I haven’t obsessed about, criticized, demeaned or wished away
any part of my body in almost ten straight days.

Total fucking record.

This is what it took, the world grinding
to a furious, panicked halt--
This is what it took to get me to
to let go of frowning at the rise of my belly, the flesh of my thighs,
the droop of my middle-aged breasts.
The weirdly sublime side effect of this global pandemic
is that the only thing I feel
for my healthy body is
Reverence
Respect
Stewardship
All the things you tried to teach me in the time you were my friend.
I can only bow to and adore
my healthy body.
You would be so proud of me.

But I’m still me, so let me be real:
I also bought 11 new shades of lip gloss
and two new drug store lipsticks because suddenly it seemed
terribly urgent to find the perfect neutral shade.
Listen to these porno-sounding colors:
Barely There
Nude Embrace
Truffle Tease
Velvet Sunstone
Cashmere Silk
Sheer Petal
Teddy
You would laugh so hard at these names,
at my ridiculous cosmetic obsession.
Ah, Sweetie, where’re you going with those lips?

I’m not going anywhere,
but I am so scared.
Of what’s happening,
What’s coming.
Who we might lose.

I think you would tell me:
It’s okay to be scared.
It’s okay
It’s okay
It’s okay

I’d only believe it from you,
but of course, your words would be a koan,
they always were.
You and your trickster spirituality.
You wouldn’t mean: You’ll be comfortable and back to normal in no time.
You wouldn’t mean: Your life won’t change.
You wouldn’t mean: You won’t know sorrow.

What you would mean by its okay would be something
Less comforting but more true.
You would mean: You have this moment, and you can choose
To be present.
To witness.
To record.
To feel.
To tremble.
To draw near.
To trust spirit.
To love.

And I would know what you meant, even though
I often prefer false assurances.
Like right now, honestly, I’d grab a guarantee like fistful of Oreos
I’d stuff one by one into my mouth
until my stomach ached.

I guess that’s why I wanted to write to you
and about you.
So I could remember the protein and vitamins of your words.
So I could tell you what you’re missing.
So I could remember who you were to me.
So I could spend time with you
both outside of and from within fear and contagion.

This way, I get to remember you and
how much I miss you.

And I wish you were here, and I’m so glad you’re not.

Author Bio:
Christie Tate is a Chicago-based writer, originally from Texas. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, McSweeney's, The Rumpus, and elsewhere.

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The Virus~ By Jacqueline Coleman-Fried

3/24/2020

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It starts there,
perhaps with a bat,
then a pangolin—a creature with a long snout
and scales like an armadillo--
that snuffs up the bat’s droppings.

Then perhaps people capture the pangolin
and sell it at a crowded market
to someone else who eats it or uses it
as medicine. Another animal virus
spreads to humans in China--

the world’s second-largest economy.

On the other hand, I’ve read
that Chinese medicine’s misunderstood--
ancient experts wrote that eating wild beasts
can make you sick. Yet people
went the other way.

Remember the three witches in Macbeth?
They were brewing eye of newt and toe of frog,
but the real danger came from
how Macbeth heard their prophesy.
They never said he could kill the king—and live.

Author Bio:
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet and essayist living in Tuckahoe, NY.

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A Celestial Gathering~ By Dennis Reed

3/11/2020

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The family, missing
them all

knowing their faces
together

in a warm room
brown cheekbones touching

fried chicken fumes
pickles from potato

salad smelling,
come

together
smiles shared,

teeth showing
fumes dancing

above our heads,
something

inside
that we cannot name

becomes the bond
we pass

touch
hands and plates

throughout the circular room,
dancing

with talk.

Author Bio:
Dennis Reed is a former member of the infamous group BUD JONES. His work has appeared in ESSENCE, BLACK SCHOLAR, CLA and many other magazines and journals. At present, he producing his own screenplay, LOVE ON THE CORNER.

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March on, My Resilience~ By Angelina Valeri

3/10/2020

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Every time I close my eyes the days start rushing back.
I remember how you smiled as I fell further into black.
The skeleton in your closet looks a hell of a lot like me,
But I’ll stand here, accepting, and help you patiently.
I don’t have a choice, forgive and forget, I must march on.
Because the person that once protected me is long gone.

March on my resilience, you’ll find no shelter here.
March on my resilience, away from all the fear.
The ropes that must stay bound in the corners of my mind,
Need tightening from time to time.
So please march on, my resilience.

I will not get angry, I will not fight back, I’ll stand statuesque.
I will stay calm, and when I cannot, I’ll scribble at my desk.
A cozy book, a glass of wine to keep me going strong.
I’ll hold my head high, and I will march on.

March on my resilience, you’ll find no shelter here.
March on my resilience, away from all the fear.
My 17th has come and gone, soon I will be free.
I will stay sound and keep my panic far away from me.
So please march on, my resilience.

To the beat of a drum, march on.
To the thump of a heart, march on.
To the circling of the sun, march on.
To the end of the world, march on.

Never looking back, and always marching on.

Author Bio:
Angelina is a high school student from the U.S. She loves expressing her struggles through poetry. Angelina has never taken a writing class beyond English classes at school. She has no degrees nor accolades, only a computer and a big imagination.

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Forbidden Romance~ By Ashley Virginia Matthew

3/5/2020

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A maiden is dressed in a gown of white.
Her lips are dark as blood.
Her hair is black as night.
She waits for her lover to meet her in the woods.
From her crimson cloak, she pulls up her hood.
A chill is in the air as snowflakes blow all around.
Suddenly, she hears a familiar, comforting sound.
Her lover awaits her, to wrap her in his arms.
He always knew how to charm her even when it risked her harm.
It was his deep, passionate kisses that she could never resist.
The way his soft touch felt always brought her to bliss.
The snow keeps falling like sparkling pixie dust.
On this night, purity and innocence is lost in lust.

Author Bio:
Ashley Virginia Matthew is a graduate of Cedarville University. She majored in Journalism and has two minors in Creative Writing and Bible. She currently lives in Fairfield, Ohio and enjoys writing fiction and poetry. Ashley has been writing as a hobby since childhood and enjoys writing on a variety of genres, from fantasy to romance. Her writing is influenced by a vast majority of topics, including sports, personal life events, historical figures, travel destinations and more.

In her spare time, Ashley enjoys traveling, exercising, watching professional wrestling, reading and listening to music. Some of Ashley's previous writing experience includes being a staff writer for KayfabeKickout.com, an intern reporter for The Pulse-Journal, a reporter for two collegiate student newspapers and a reporter for her high school student newspaper. Ashley also writes and edits the bimonthly newsletter at her current place of employment. Ashley's writing goals include someday being a published novelist and to always strive to improve at her craft for writing.

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Heal~ By Sara Reynolds Cox

3/4/2020

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rubbing alcohol soaks
the silver dollar cotton pads
and seeps onto my pale fingertips.

I pressed the cotton
against my bleeding skin
and shivered.

to keep the writhing scream inside
I clenched a cold rag
between my baby teeth.

still crooked.
still growing.

alcohol intertwined with my
pulsating
twig-like frame.

blood rushes to the area
like waves rushing to meet
sand-sunken toes.

no one holds my hand or
fits the bandage over
the skinned knee-cap.

I wince
and tie the bandage.
elevate, reduce the pressure
and, eventually,

heal

Author Bio:
Sara Reynolds Cox is an English major at Cumberland University. Her hometown is located just outside of Nashville, but her roots are in an itty-bitty town in North Alabama. A natural lover of words, she has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember and was awarded the John MacDougall Literary Award from Volunteer State Community College for one of her poems. Sara's primary mission is to carry a message of hope through writing to those coping with trauma. Her dream is to someday practice expressive art therapy, but for now, she is waiting on her Higher Power to show her the next step-- whatever that might be.

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limited body expressions~ By Uzomah Ugwu

3/3/2020

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Buttons misplaced all over the place
Scattered among a torn shirt worn
And stressed out amongst the body
To display the hindsight of the fashion cues
Or clues that abuse the visual of the institutions
That have this fabric mayhem mapped out

Not allowing freedom in your clothes or
Applying and exercising your freedoms elsewhere
Particularly within their doors

Can not have a hat to cover the madness or a
Belt to hold your pants from falling to the floor
To collect your thoughts where you walk all over them
Drawn blood from medical vampires yield results
Determining if you will stay or leave this space

Just imagine the air out there its been so long
But something has gone wrong your doctor is gone
For the weekend and the one on call can not write you
A ticket back to freedom, just explore you for a brief moment
While you exercise your demons

Which gives your body more weight and a mind
Out of place spinning and bouncing off the walls
While your pants fall off
And your breasts freely disagree
with the lack of control
For your bra had wire in them , also a
fashion mistake within these halls
Making you question where did this all begin
And if you would ever again
wear the clothes you were once sitting in

Author Bio:
Uzomah has a way of capturing a scene and the feelings that allow you to follow and flow within the realms of her poetics as you read each line filled with metaphors. Her placement of ideas and images leaves you dangling all the way throughout the poem, line by line with trauma, pain joy or a mixture of both that reveals some type of solitude. She surprises you in end with something she does not even may mean to say at all, that we all might be feeling, and had not felt until reading one of her poems.

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