By Cchristy White
Who have you missed
in this time of isolation,
of masks and distance?
Whose face did you dream
as the nights alone resembled days
without the touch of another?
Are you longing for them now,
their last breath already taken,
your voice a sob on a cell phone?
In the hidden spaces in your heart
is there relief that a loved one
no longer suffers pain and loss,
but do you feel guilty for living?
Maybe you have become closer
to friends, family, neighbors,
gratitude for their concerns
weighted with your fears.
Did you grow angrier
as each day of nonscience passed,
as all the days of masking chafed,
and your untouched skin ached?
Who have you missed most
and will you find them again
in another’s intimacy?
Perhaps you entered this time
with too much distance,
too much fire;
the ashes you sifted
gray reminders that all
is precious and are now
numerous enshrined lasts.
“Is It Tuesday or Is It July?”
Sometimes, overnight, the world changes.
Last night it was one day and the next
it was another month gone by.
I still haven’t cleaned the floors
but I manage to take the trash out
and then wonder where the dog has gone
only to find her snoring in her bed.
Today it’s midnight again
and I’m still up trying to settle
the uneasiness, the queasiness,
the jumpy, worried, rattled feelings
when I see another mother has been
tear gassed into gasping breaths.
Are the mothers of those boys
beating that Navy veteran
as he stands and takes it like a man,
elated and thrilled with their sons?
Is it Tuesday in July again
or have we skipped into hell. Oh,
I’d like to see something different,
maybe a flower in every gun,
an encouraging, helping hand up;
some ice cream and a smile
could go a long way with me.
The dishes are washed and put away,
the laundry’s been done for the week.
I ironed my masks so they would be neat,
but I still don’t know if it is Saturday
or May or summertime or 1967 again.
Do we have to keep doing this
ranting, hostile, vicious exaggeration?
Come on, neuvo hippies, mothers
and dads, daughters and sons, cousins
and electronic hooked in friends,
grandparents and Viet Vets remembering
the summer of love.
I wish it was winter again
so I’d know some kind of end,
know if I was staying
I live and work in Phoenix, Arizona, doing a lot of Zooms with poetry workshops, poetry presentations, literature connections. I am president of the Arizona State Poetry Society and, at 63, earned my Masters in Creative Writing/Poetry Focus which was a life-long dream. I have been composing/writing poetry since I was a little girl, and first published a poem when I was 12. Since then I have had my poetry published in a number of regional journals and most recently in Sandcutters 2020, Write On: Downtown Phoenix, and The Blue Guitar.
I wrote the poems as I was trying my best to make sense of both the pandemic, the deaths, and the incredible disregard for science facts.