Lace & Wool
Lynn Strongin

     

The night I was stricken
Struck much     fused out brain

The city was picked with holes:
Lace

The blanket
Thrown over me was wool. The virus was

Like a hot iron
Leaving its isosceles triangle singe.

But riding in a trolley
Up to isolation

Past children in striker frames
This was not a slow burn situation

This was ignition

Rocket
Shuddering

My legs were to become
Thin as the stick figures

My vision
Sharp as the lung which glinted in the right corner stage of the 
room near curtains.

//   Advance   //