#aint no other mkp

it’s 2020, folks, and I know there’s a pandemic on
but you may want to get your eyes checked,
because prophecy might be written on the subway walls
and hindsight might be 20-20
but there’s none so blind
as those who don’t want to see
and everything gets blurrier at a (social) distance.

and I know the sheer scale of it is dizzying
I too would like to get off this ride,
but there’s an iron bar of panic locking me in place
(for my own safety, the government says;
keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times)
compressing my chest,

and it feels like I can’t breathe, feels like
the crushing weight of a knee on a neck,
the violating internal wheeze of a ventilator at work,
the terrifying threat of a person breathing
down the back of my neck,
all those zoom calls and micromanagement,

and the temperature of the earth is still climbing.
there are children in cages and convicts in coffins
and maybe we managed to vote the horse
out of the hospital but he’s started taking hostages
and as we all know by now
in this kind of situation, you never want to call the cops,

even if it feels like there should be someone
available to complain to. 

and everywhere you go it’s the same damn refrain

                                  I can’t breathe—

it’s 2020, folks, and I know some people
are calling this the darkest timeline.
I can’t say for sure that they’re wrong.
I can’t say for sure that I want them to be wrong.
it’s always darkest right before the dawn, after all,
and we live in unprecedented times—

                                   did you ever think 2020 would end like this, tulio?
                                    …the destiel and dippin dots were a surprise

and I’m still holding out hope for a sunrise.

I don’t.

I can’t. 

the weight of it, the depth to it, all of it overwhelms me. I am still that small child getting pulled under by the sucking drag of the receding wave, still caught in the salt and furor and sharp scrapes of skin on sand as the next one bowls me over. my breath gets knocked out of me, again and again, my grief is an ocean and I’m drowning in sight of the shore, unable to call for help or regain my balance, knocked over again every time I manage to rise on shaky feet.

finally, a lull in the crash and the loam. I scramble my way to the shore, stumble and stagger in this almost-forgotten inescapable gravity, the way my sodden swimsuit suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.

I reach the beach towel and throw myself upon it, exhausted and overwhelmed and somehow shivering with cold despite the sun. my eyes sting, my sinuses burn. my mouth still tastes like brine.

I lie there and slowly the sunbeams sink down into me, heating me through to my bones. I hear the crash and roar of the waves, ever present, steady, almost soothing. I look out towards the water and remember the earlier terror, muted now, a faded memory of the thing.

my parents ask if I don’t want to get back in the water, warn me this is the last day at the beach. they tell me they don’t want me to regret it tomorrow, leaving the surf like this. they say look, see how the waves have calmed. look, see how the tide recedes.

I shake my head, stubborn, certain. already the stinging crashing tumble is starting to feel like some too-clear dream.

I am tired. I ache all over. my skin is crusty with sand and salt. I am ready to be done with this vacation. I just want to go home and sleep.