Influenza A

Influenza A
I’ve got to say
You really are a piece of work

You invade on sly
You multiply
You are ruthless, shitty and completely berserk

You don’t care for special days
For birthdays or school vacays
Your scruples are most definitely extinct

You greedy, gluttonous piece of shit
Infecting just one person doesn’t cut it
Your idea of fun and mine are clearly inversely linked.

My daughter’s birthday has come and gone
And yet you persist, you linger on
You unwanted, parasitic, germ

Get out of my head and body too
If the dodo is extinct, why not you?
This is most surely the end of your term!

Find some other living tissue for your needs.
Something else on which you feed
The year has ended fiend, now scoot.

Finally, the fevers gone away
But mucus, why the heck do you stay?
2018 please come- give this germ the boot!

Tomorrow

I am sorry.

I love you.

Now

 I am gathering

my strength.

Whatever,

I say,

Whatever you want.

Whatever, you say.

The day is dead

like that tree outside.

Branches sawed off,
prepared

awaiting its final execution.

Its sap, congealed,

 like the words in my throat.

To the back of your head

I say,

Can we talk…

finish this.

Whatever... talk.

Outside, a dog barks.

Then silence.

when the day is fresh,

when time has passed,

when our actions over-take our words,

when you open your eyes... tomorrow.

Tomorrow,

I say,
we can talk tomorrow.

Monday Morning

It is a long distance, from your wrist

to the bend of your elbow.

You roll another whispery fold

of your shirt sleeve.

In some place over your knuckles,

a subcutaneous line pulses

like a super charged expressway.

I track it

till it disappears higher up,

to a warm, dark space

away from your blunt fingertips

to the hollow

where your shirt sleeve lies nestled.

I smell the soap from your shower
And you, my coffee.

If there was mass

to the words we have spoken,

we would see them laying

upon the ground.

Cold, stiff and unrelenting, 

while we circled around, sniffing; 

the metallic tang of blood in the air.

How much space would they swallow

if they had volume?

Could we move them, scale them;

roll them away?

As we try to make our way through them, 

they stick to our feet. 

Behind us they follow,

like a shadow strengthened. 

And what of speed?

Your tongue like the string of a bow 

arches backwards, to fling from your mouth

choice syllables.

Large, dense, and tar-black,

that stick to the skin and burn. 

I know of nothing else, that,

in the same moment, can be as hot as it is cold.

Later,

after the blood-lust is past,

strewn around are the remnants of this battle.

Discombobulated words, gutted, bleeding letters

going through the motions of their last palpitations 

Wielding the last vestiges of their power

before the greyness of their death sets in. 

Should we light a fire, consecrate this ground?

Offer flowers, incense, and betel nuts

to help them cross over.

We let them go. 

But, for all that is lost, 

something is gained.

Unobserved, as we unite,

to rebuild, repair

a spore, from words passed

attaches to the backs of our heels.

Pranayama

I see the early morning from the terrace of my home- the sky has split into two. On one side, the sun is a ball of fury, angered by the encroaching hoard of black clouds, and on the other, it is as if night has returned, like a jealous lover, to make sure of my fidelity. And when I shut my eyes, it is hard not to imagine myself as a single dot on this panoramic, skyscape- a single point into which all imaginary lines from the things in front of me vanish- in art words, a one point perspective.

I close my eyes, legs folded, back straight. Breathe in by one count, breathe out by two, I am training myself. Be still, be still, be still.

But, instead I think- if the sun can dry my laundry in an afternoon, why can’t it dry this nimbostratus? I refuse to think of physics, air currents, and calculations of densities. Perhaps these clouds are not close enough? Size, weight, and intensity seem to have no relevance if proximity is taken out of the equation. Funny, how nothing is ever solved from afar. Even the mighty sun cannot touch a rain cloud from its position in the sky. 

My thumb touches the tip of my index finger, as I settle down again, but I can barely feel it there. Eyes shut. Breathe in by two counts, breathe out by four. The desire to open my eyes rises inside me again. Be still, be still, be still. 

The sky is now, in small part, a feathered sea, but mostly a dark, deep, endless, void, gathering momentum, eating its way from the horizon, all the way across to me. I can’t see the sun any longer; instead, a brilliant line of gold crests a solitary, lingering cloud, like a crown. That too, is quickly swallowed up by the field of black. The air is cool, electric, slightly dangerous. I feel my heart in my chest; a steady pulse, and it is growing louder. The breeze picks up speed; I hear the scratching sound of dried leaves as they scrape across the roof floor, and a random white paper napkin left behind from a long-forgotten dinner flies by. I have an impulse to catch it, but then I don’t. It somehow fits this scene.

Breathe in by four counts, breathe out by eight. Breathe in by four counts, breathe out by eight.

I do not even pretend to shut my eyes now. How can I miss this, this celestial battle, this hostile take-over of the sun, this epic invasion made up of fire, water, and air?

I feel it before I can see it. A tiny tap, and then another; made cold by the wind. Rain, glorious rain, with the scent of the wet earth riding on its back. I stand still and just feel it. These invisible lines of water seem to have somehow found me, from their home in the clouds, to this place, at this particular time, to the me that is present at this moment. 

Later, I will say, this is my perspective on the storm, my one point perspective- but for now, I simply breathe in and breathe out.