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I’ve known storms -
hungry hurricanes,
skies that bite,
winds like knives.

The floods that left me
ankle deep
in dryer lint
and baby shoes,

roofs that couldn’t bear
the damp and bled
into buckets on my
bedroom floor.

Gales that scooped
my chickens from
their coop like
ice cream

before they stole
the softness
of my mother’s face.
Storms, weathered wildly

with oars, candles,
sandbags, and
rubber boots.
This pandemic, though,

stalks more than shores.
It’s quiet, limbless,
and red.
It sneaks and slinks -

dots countertops
with venom, forcing us
into corners
until it loses its oomph,

until it’s satisfied
with the pile of casualties,
slipping away softly,
crown askew.

Based in Florida, Jenny Anderson is a poet, therapist, coach, and ill-equipped pandemic home-schooler. Her book, But Still She Flies, a collaboration with artist Emma Greenhill, will be published in 2020. Follow them on FB and IG.


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As we cough into our
elbows and retreat into
our dens, Earth
sighs. (A mother with
her sloppy brood
tucked in.)

The muted melody
of calmer days
resumes and she
swallows it whole.
Cicadas serenade
her,

magnolias bow. The
greens ripen, the
hives drip with sticky
sweetness, and the
willows wipe
their eyes.

Wave retreats from
shore without bottles,
buckets, or broken
flip flops in tow.
Tortoise crosses
the highway slowly,

steadily, uninterrupted.
Mother’s latitude
loosens, she shakes out
her hair, gets down
to the business of
repair —

of tidying up
the mess we’ve left
in her living room.

Jenny Anderson is a poet, therapist, coach, and ill-equipped pandemic home-schooler. Her book, But Still She Flies, a collaboration with artist Emma Greenhill, will be published in 2020.


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I texted my next
door neighbor.
She’s old and lost
her husband just
over a year ago.

Told her I intended
to brave the
market with my
sanitizer in
tow.

She asked that I
buy her some
berries, but only
if they were
properly plump.

I wove the crowded
aisles, holding my
breath, hastily
sweeping essentials
into my cart,

stewing in the sea of
germ and worry,
eyeing the drippy-nosed
toddlers with
suspicion.

And then I arrived
in produce, felt
my vitals slowing
as I surveyed the
clear containers

of blueberries one
by one. There
weren’t many left
but they did seem
fresh and round. …

About

Jenny Anderson

@but_still_she_flies (IG and FB)

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