A long poem, sending healing to anyone who is in it!
Covid, 2023
I am late to the party when I get Covid in 2023
and because of such I am not afraid.
It is kindly, allowing me to quarantine
in a southern California best kept secret
Best Western, a mile from the sea against foothills
that are the shapes of elephants backs.
I came here when I was 17,
leaving for college driving a silver Honda Civic with red interior,
from Sacramento, seven hours I marked with the change in trees,
oaks, then eucalyptus, then eucalyptus and palm.
I stayed for 13 years and had two babies,
birthed them before altars of honeysuckle,
walked them to sleep smelling jasmine mixed with salty sea air.
The land really belongs to the people with dark hair
who tend this place, the landscapers and desk girls.
I bow to them as I take my magnetic key.
There is a man on a patio stuccoing the hotel’s white wall.
There is another man pruning the bougainvillea.
The avocado festival has past,
the summer fog as well and it is still warm here.
It is Halloween. I FaceTime my granddaughter
who is interested in "Oma’s covid” she calls it
and likes my gravelly voice.
I don’t want to go home yet (now further further north)
and can’t in good conscience, not wanting to be like the man
behind me on the plane wet coughing who I am sure despite
the airlines claim of Hepa filtration got me sick.
I have a dear friend who is fetching things for me,
cozy socks and duct tape to tape the tub so I may properly submerge.
I ask her for cherry cough drops the second round,
I can’t taste them, but the pale red
will be a welcome difference from lemon’s pale yellow.
I came to the page because of a dream induced by a combination
of Nyquil, melatonin and half a pot gummy.
It was the fifth night and I thankfully gleefully did not spend
all of it blowing my nose as I had the others.
I dreamt it and woke up and said to myself remember
and dreamt it again and said wake up and remember
and dreamt it again and said wake up and remember.
I must tell you what is happening for context
there is this emergence of AI (artificial intelligence?
artist inference? alien insistence? awe inspiration?)
that is transforming little things so far,
churning out stellar resumes and concierge worthy trip itineraries,
there is both fear and excitement at the possibilities
of these as we have all heard of tales of drones killing the wrong
person (and why are people being killed by drones at all?!)
and what if the robots decide we humans are the problem
and take us out, as many a sci fi movie has explored.
No matter in the dream I FEEL the next iteration of AI.
I feel that the keyboard and the touch screen
have yielded to voice and orchestration in mid air,
we all becoming the conductors of our desires
as if we were pointing to butterflies alighting on flowers,
asking for this and that and having it materialize.
And then I feel the evolution beyond
where we think and our needs are recognized
and finally we lose our need for writing and words,
our feelings and thoughts are known with fluid ease,
we merge with our loved ones and like
martial arts masters dodge anything that does not serve us.
TikTok has given mental health to the masses
and taught us all to not take things personally and to self love.
And finally we are one with everything.
There is no separation, no negativity and no need
and we are like god then, like spirit,
like fractal angel moonbeams
and the days are akin to watching sunsets
looking for green flashes that sometimes are not there and sometimes are.
And then we begin to create, differently than last time
we decide to see how lovely we can make this planet
and we are excited to solve the riddle of enough space for everyone
including the bonobos and the polar bears.
The concrete metal and glass are softened
by plants and flowers, we pluck fruit in the city,
we glide everywhere as if the world is one big rollerskating rink,
our pod-like cars float and emit singing bowl vibrations.
There is no more loneliness or lack,
we will work for a few meaningful hours a day
and then move our bodies and eat delicious food
and have time to make music and read and paint and dance and make love.
The morning after this dream, I am
taking an online class called “seeing with your heart”
about transforming ancestral trauma,
and it is suggested Covid is an upgrade to our cells
(which certainly wasn’t for many who died
although maybe it was there time to go)
and today I imagine this is so and I imagine the internet’s
flurry of videos and opinions about Israel, Palestine, Ukraine and Russia,
the lack of infrastructure in flooded Libya,
opiod addictions, homelessness and climate change
will all be embraced and tended and soon we will have epic ballads
of how we faced and solved these problems.
My bestie and I walk on the beach
(I have given her Covid) so we form a pod,
we are two middle age dolphin ladies
that talk about books and shows and podcasts,
we explore Instagrams of women making fabulous sums of money
while showing cleavage in solid color business suits
(mint green and hot pink and caramel)
to coach one another in love and health and dating and manifestation.
I watch a show called “Sex Education” where at a finishing high school
the students are in charge and there is yoga hourly and nobody cares
what gender you are or who you kiss or fuck.
There is such freedom depicted in their queer parties,
you want it whip cream sprayed on you even if you are straight.
I watch a show called the Blue Zones in which
a guy who rode a bicycle quite far decided to change not only
how long we live, but how well we live, by visiting centenarians
and discovering their secrets which are fourfold,
1. connection 2. purpose 3. movement 4. lots of veggies.
Self care morphs while I rest
in a hotel with a Spanish tile roof which holds me
until I am well enough to travel.
I accept a fresh box of ultra soft tissues from my friend
who doesn’t think she is glamorous, but she is,
she is Sophie Loren lovely.
The first two days, I used paper towels
then carried a roll of toilet paper,
then used the ultra soft tissue,
blowing my nose around the edges
until the small white square was limp
like a flower petal held in a warm hand.
Until finally today, the fifth day, a day I feel able to write,
I allow myself a tissue per nose blow.
All the while wondering what a poem do,
what can a dream do, what can a television show
or a social media post or a concept
such as blue zones or cellular upgrades do.
I don’t know, but I do know when I am reminded
three times in the night to remember
and write a poem, I do it.