#poetry in a time of quarantine

it’s not like anxiety and I were strangers when the lockdown started,
when the world abruptly shrank to the size of my apartment.

no, we’re old friends, anxiety and I, although usually she comes and goes.
she’s like a cat, appearing and disappearing at her own leisure,
completely assured of her right to your undivided attention,
hissing and lashing out when cornered or the alarm goes off.

friends might be the wrong word. nemesi? frenemies? partners in panic?

whatever we are, we’ve been it a long, long, l o n g  time.
she is a quiet constant, invisible in her familiarity,
a startling shocking lack when absent.

she purrs, and the tremors in my hands keep time.
the rapid pulse of my heart thrums back,
and the two become one
become the hum of thwarted adrenaline,
the rising pitch barely contained within my bones.

she and I are an unplanned symphony.
this orchestra has no conductor,
no rehearsals or curtain calls.

is it stretching the metaphor to say that she gets stage fright?

because she does. the stage lights leave her light-headed,
and she curls up around me, overwhelmed and burying inward,
sulking like a child and taking all the oxygen in the room with her.
I try to comfort her but she’s also stolen all the moisture from my mouth,
the sense from my syntax, my mouth a desert,

my mouth adessert, gummy gums too sticky to speak,
my stomach a dizzying and sympathetic storm, a roiling ache
that could be hunger, nausea, cramps, the yawning void of grief, the terror of a life unlived–

something too vast and powerful to name.

I.

31 years old, and I still can’t seem to whistle.

it’s not that I never tried to learn,
because I did try, again and again,
as a small child, an awkward tween,
drunk at a college frat,

it’s just that the lesson
never seemed to take.

I tried, again and again,
but all I ever managed to produce
was sputters of air, spittle,
not-quite-smothered snickers.

the rest of my family can whistle,
always have. it’s infuriating.

why should I be the one
unable to whistle?
it seems like a cruel joke
on the part of the universe.

doesn’t it know that humans
are meant to whistle?

I am left walking silently in the dark.

II.

whistling comes in many forms, and not all of them strictly musical.

the robot sculpture in the front garden
wears a fabric mask. it has recently been replanted
a careful six feet back from the street,
from which responsible distance

it reminds passersby the importance
of social distancing.

my father, an apparently essential
government employee, goes to work
wearing a red shirt, an iron-on starfleet symbol,
and a sharply sardonic smile.

I’m not sure my sci-fi indifferent mother
actually understands the joke.

I’m sure I won’t be the one to explain it to her.

III.

my brothers have started playing apocalypse bingo.

neither of them has won yet, but they
insist it’s only a matter of time.
neither of them has lost yet, either,
so I suppose there are worse games

for them to play, like Life,
which is, let’s be honest,

an absolute horror of a board game.
it’s worse than Monopoly, which is
both impressive and what Alanis
would call ironic, since after all

monopolies are one of Life’s
many monsters. they ask me to play—

I tell them it’s too dark.

IV.

I am trying again to learn how to whistle.

it seems only appropriate, given
the givens. in a movie, this would be
a perfect illustration of a hastily-added
last-minute and ham-handed metaphor.

“I learn how to whistle–
and how not to be afraid of the dark!”

real life doesn’t quite work that way,
as much as I sometimes wish it would.
I don’t understand why I can’t
do this one stupid thing.

how does a person whistle, anyway?
it’s easy, says my youngest brother.

you just put your lips together

and blow.

I am not the protagonist.
I cling to that, repeat it again and again
like an invocation or a prayer.
This is not my origin story.
This is not my story at all.
You will never even know my name.

You don’t need to know my name.
After all, I am not the protagonist.
I am no hero, no savior. All
I am is montage fodder. Again -
I am not the protagonist in this story.
Other voices drown out the words of my prayer,

which is for the best, really. Prayers
must be said with care. Like names,
they have more power when kept secret. A story
needs its twists and turns. A protagonist
needs a background to be held against
for comparison. It’s all

about drawing attention. Look, all!
Salvation is at hand. Our prayers
have for once not been in vain. Again
and again I repeat my protective charm. Names
have power. We know they are the protagonist
because we know their name. The story

has told us their name. The story
does not care about me. All
it cares about is the protagonist.
So again and again I repeat my prayer.
I am not the protagonist. My name
is my own. I mouth the words again

and again and again and again.
I am not the protagonist in this story.
You do not, will not know my name.
I will admit this is a gamble. All
things in life are, especially prayer.
I am not the protagonist.

I say it again, all quiet desperation.
Please, story teller, hear my prayer.
Do not name me the protagonist. I will fail.

we’re out of the opening montage now
but this is still an apocalypse movie.
we’ve switched genres:
action to drama, exciting to dark.

this film will not be playing in all theaters.

the opening montage is over now:
this is the slow grind
of not quite rising action.
the camera slows down, pans

wide angles of aimlessness
interspersed with sudden

jumps in focus.

zoom in, now. let the music fade.
adjust the lights.
they should be harsher, sharper
as real and rasping as sandpaper.
as loud as a ventilator’s wheeze.

emphasize the gritty reality of it all:
this is the new normal.
do not comment on the societal changes.
let them speak for themselves:

the casual mask hooked over the gearshift handle,
the shuffling bored awkwardness of space stretching out a line,
the routine airlock protocols and pause
of a dasher leaving food,
of a customer picking it up.

pause here, with children playing covid.
let the viewer marvel

at the human ability to adapt.

linger a moment longer,
one breath, then another, then

flash to one deathbed after another
each ventilator blurring into the next
sheets pulled up over faces
while tweet after tweet plays

the government can’t - unconstitutional -
do your own research - make your own decision -
respect my choice - my beliefs - my rights

zoom in on a twitter profile.

they call themselves pro-life.