I am the kind of person who goes quiet in bad times; I try to be still and gather myself, to listen. Those first few weeks of staying at home and social distancing—when it seemed it might be only weeks—felt like the fates were demanding I do just that: stay home, write, listen. I felt freed as well anxious. I wrote the first poem below, “Shelter In Place”. Then the beast that is a Florida summer came. It rained, then it poured. I wrote a poem, “Florida, June 2020”, about summer settling its dank haunches on Florida as it does every year. Then things changed. Then people died in hospitals by the thousands. And then people died in the streets. I went to a vigil for George Floyd and added these lines to the poem: “Heat rumbles rage-dark skies, / feeds the viral spread,” and added the year 2020 to the title.
SHELTER IN PLACE
No bras. Bare feet.
Eat. Sing off-key. Sleep. Listen.
Birdsongs say, Spring!
Sirens say, Hold your breath.
Drum of hearts
beats low and soft.
Listen.
FLORIDA, JUNE 2020
Humidity curls our hair,
oils our skin slick.
Water everywhere;
trickles out of us, falls on us,
snakes across the garage floor.
A bucket left in the yard
fills in two days.
Frog eggs then tadpoles pock
the gutter puddles.
Warm wet exhalations
where none but trees breathe,
giving us shade to molder in.
Heat rumbles rage-dark skies,
feeds the viral spread.
Too hot for cynicism
or forgiveness.
The season’s first named hurricane menaces the coast,
leaves a postcard: Just you wait.
Copyright © Rhonda Riley