This is not a piece posturing on pandemics.
Stop sign here — no panic intended.
Laws of logarithmic numbers
in that global mystery
are for epidemiologists to decipher.
Mine is a question asked
as a part of another puzzle.
Believing other fragments that fit
where the gaps exist
are lost in an ocean of mismatched pieces.
Pondering the challenge.
A pan is drawn to a particular personality.
No one else satisfies the pursuit for their pleasure.
What would be the odds
of two pans wanting only each other.
I guess a pandemic would increase those odds.
In a self-isolation scenario.
An infinite dilemma.
The moments. Lost. The motions. Found.
Like clocks, we chime to a beat that matches no heart.
Mementos of feelings; fractured echoes.
Snapshots in faded sepia tones.
Crackling through distance and time.
“My little vampire.”
Preferring pan juices left from a bloodied steak.
No stomach for your mother’s milk.
Too weak to cry. Barely surviving.
Slept all day; still all night.
So, the story she told me goes.
A reminder I was hers to give to this world.
Defining toddler marker.
Huddled together trembling
on the pavement across the street
from the home left splintered late in the day.
Summer scent waft of blooming frangipani trees
filling our nostrils without any connected calm.
Ordered out by enraged father before dusk. …
Last night I took a walk
and separated from my shadow.
It stood alongside me for a while;
not really sure if it wanted to stay or go.
Such a thorny decision to make
when you have been stuck in sync
as one for so long.
Through the lows and lows together.
Basking in the glory of the muck and mire.
I knew the time had come to let go. …