Resistance Poetry 2020.03
The Covid-19 Issue
The carriage light over my parents’ door illuminated a soft snowfall as I arrived for the party. My mother must have had an ear out for my car, because as I reached for the doorbell, she popped out the side door with a, “Psst. This way.”
Mystified, I followed her into the kitchen. Finger to her lips she whispered, “I want you to see something.” I trailed behind as she led the way down narrow basement stairs.
“My God!” I exclaimed. The basement ceiling was blanketed in smoke.
“Keep it down!” she admonished. “We lit a fire in the living room fireplace. We thought it would be nice for the party.”
This fireplace had not been used in living memory.
“There must be a crack in the hearth or a timber too close to the masonry that’s smoldering. You have to put out the fire right now!”
“Well, I don’t want to alarm anyone,” was my mother’s response.
“That’s not half as alarmed as they are going to be when they have to run out of a burning building into the snowy night!”
And the fire was put out. And the house didn’t burn down.
Isn’t that human nature? Act the gracious host. Keep the party going, the wine flowing, the guests entertained. Solve problems via the back door. Pray your audience never finds out how you screwed up, how close they came.
The same story has played out over and over across the globe these past months with a difference. There is no night into which we might run. We’re all trapped in a burning house. Only our efforts to squelch the fire will save us. The only questions are who and how many will die.
The reality of this pandemic hit home for me the night of March 10. That’s when a little tickle I thought was the residue of spring yardwork exploded into a wracking cough and raging fever. Twenty-two days later, my fever is gone but I’m still hacking and wheezing. My torso feels bruised and beaten. I have been prescribed antibiotics over the phone.
I may have pneumonia. I don’t know because I can’t see anyone. That’s because I’m still breathing. Only the failing are seen. Only the failing are tested. That’s the reality in Maine. The few tests we have are reserved for the hospitalized, first responders, and those in congregate housing.
The truth is, I don’t know what I have. And I wonder if the White House wants it that way. Fewer tests produce fewer statistics.
But here’s a statistic for you: More poetry has been submitted to RP on covid-19 than any other newsworthy event in the history of this publication. I have no doubt this is because — be the pieces humorous, scathing, or heart-felt — each of us is directly touched by the ramifications of this disease.
In the coming months, I encourage each of us to check in with our favorite writers on this platform, especially if a regular voice is suddenly absent. Many of us are likely to fall ill, perhaps severely ill. I hope we all survive. Nothing is certain. But, what mattered to me the most when I was struggling was knowing I had friends who cared. Let’s be that for each other.
With that, I give you our poets:
Erin (new poet)
Nachi Keta (new poet)
Terry Downie (new poet)
Jane Woodman (new poet)
Jeffrey Field (new poet)
craig rory lombardi, bronx born
Rebecca Herz (new poet)
Arshiyaahamed (see above)
NEW POETS
Jeffrey Field (see above)
Erin (see above)
Nachi Keta (see above)
Terry Downie (see above)
Rebecca Herz (see above)
Arshiyaahamed (see above)
