COVID Congress
A poem by Missy Malverde.
Insect traces on your windowsill,
Viral traces on your cell,
It looms near
But all they share is fear.
Claw marks on your flagstone gates,
The metal lock dented
From screeching remarks,
The heads barking
The headlines jousting
Children needing food
People needing to breathe
But no one is coming.
A hand slowly unclenches
Revealing an empty palm
Of crossed lines with predestined chaos
And the stench of a crusted black residue of hope
Smearing over your dew tangled eyelashes.
Just please let me hide
I beg for just one day,
Alienated from others
Yet smothered by the reaper’s pillow,
He lives in marble halls with a grand staircase and open balcony,
He overlooks as they do for him.
You observe alone
Following the Heart of Darkness
From behind a screen
Afraid on a sinking plaid couch
Paralyzed on a leather armchair
As it sets in,
It sets in
No one is coming.
Missy Malverde
Missy Malverde lives in subrural America with her life partner, raising their loving and discerning child. An anti-capitalist from the land of Sandino, her heart is a writer and her mask is a lawyer, somewhere in between she gardens, studies tarot and organizes in her community.