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.