QUARANTINE, by Jody chan |
overnight, I stagger from one announcement to
the next, barely daring touch except to test that yes, I still exist—this pandemic is a poem about waiting—I tried to strand the sick inside—walk with elbows grazing the world, mouth turned away— a couple crosses the street to avoid me—the wind crawls under my collar, the way I wish you would— how far away is after—the last time we danced I flinched when you coughed—echinacea cones engulf the yard from seeds I planted last year—the radiator bickers with the newly quiet night—a stranger downstairs abuses their child daily—their sound drifts in from the courtyard like incense—if this land laid medicine at my feet I wouldn’t recognize it—what isn’t mine is still not mine—all this time we had enough—of houses, of food-- of friends to fill a screen or two—care, measured in phone calls and deliveries from a distance—the dogs don’t know why their people keep staying— without us, the sky has more space to breathe— before the distancing I thought less about you— I am used to rejecting what I need— ginseng boiled into tea, a bouquet of hours for the two of us, alone—we isolated apart, surveying the recommendations— when you leaned out of your balcony to sing I felt it—joy pulled a pillow over its face— for now, not forever—I confess I would choose your cheek against mine, if you wanted it— as a child, I survived on Saturdays in the stacks—stories pouring like salt into the sour suburban afternoon—I wish to ignite some ancestral knowing—some slender dribble of hope—from my window my eyes stroll longer and longer, counting dead lawns, the light drying up inside living rooms—the same songs play on the radio—panic wakes me like a lover, offers my inhaler—in the morning I find my succulents unpotted on the floor, the soil too scattered to gather— left unread, books dream their own dreams, uninterrupted— of renters, revolting, and foxes returning home—for some of us, the new normal is old—having waited, I wait for the day you and I will meet hands-first—root our faces to each other’s fingers without fear— |
Jody Chan is a writer, organizer, Taiko drummer, and therapist-in-training based in Toronto. They are the poetry editor for Hematopoeisis, a 2017 VONA alum, a member of the Winter Tangerine Workshops Team, and the 2018 winner of the Third Coast Poetry Contest. Their work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and is published in BOAAT, Looseleaf Magazine, Nat. Brut, The Shade Journal, and elsewhere. They can be found online at www.jodychan.com and offline in bookstores or dog parks.