Photo by Glen Carrie
#1 April 13, 2020
Sirens,
normally taken for granted,
are prominent in the foreground
of today’s soundscape.
From the safety of my kitchen,
I wonder who is next?
#2 April 14, 2020
New office chair and large monitor
are balms for headaches and aching back
caused by more time than usual
spent sitting in front of the screen.
#3 April 15, 2020
To visit or not to visit?
150 miles away in NJ,
my 78-year-old mother
strategizes her food supply
using Instacart
and other delivery heroes.
#4 April 16, 2020
Once the pandemic has passed,
I will have
a manicured yard
but overgrown nails and
an unruly scalp
with a path of gray at the root.
#5 April 17, 2020
Being frank about privilege:
I have a computer,
access to Zoom,
real work
I can do from home,
banana bread,
leftover chicken,
rolls of toilet paper.
#6 April 18, 2020
My favorite season’s
usual expectation
(green shoots bursting through dirt
longer days, more light
bicycles, scooters)
virus mutates
into anxiety.
#7 April 19, 2020
The introvert in me
likes staying home:
more time to
read, write, walk.
I almost forget.
But each morning
the alarm sounds
as if to say: remember.
#8 April 20, 2020
When he wakes,
how will they utter
his leg’s been sacrificed
to save his life,
the same leg that
had trodden the boards
in theatres across America?
#9 April 21, 2020
Activists can buy a VOTE MASK.
The bikini has morphed
into the trikini.
‘It’s ruff out here,’
is for pet lovers.
No shortage of American ingenuity.
#10 April 22, 2020
The headline cries:
Art Rich has died.
As a local photographer
of school portraits,
between him and
countless kids,
there’s one degree of
separation.
#11 April 23, 2020
Like in Macbeth,
nature is responding
to the topsy-turvy
state. Today’s wind,
yesterday’s hail,
Saturday’s snow
belie the date
of (almost) May.
#12 April 24, 2020
In my chest
my heart
drops.
The calendar
insists – it’s been
6 weeks
6 weeks of
isolation.
For school children,
secluded elders
my heart
b r e a k s.
#13 April 25, 2020
We defy restriction
by pursuing brooks,
ponds, and windy roads
we’ve never seen.
We discover plants,
interpret rushing water
as a song of hope.
#14 April 26, 2020
How eerily routine
it has become,
the practice of
wearing masks
and gloves, making eye contact
over the ledge
of face coverings,
resisting touch.
#15 April 27, 2020
A friend, who admits
vanity is her sin, says:
“I don’t look good
in masks.”
(as if anyone does)
She is a trendsetter,
matching masks to outfits.
#16 April 28, 2020
Today is the mid-point
for a self-imposed,
sometimes nourishing,
sometimes draining,
task: penning 30 tweets
from the sidelines of
the pandemic.
#17 April 29, 2020
At 5 o’clock
(on sunny days)
neighbors burst forth
from homes, like
popped balloons,
exuberantly spilling
onto the street,
while keeping a distance.
#18 April 30, 2020
A phone fumbles
in her hands.
Waving outside
her windows only agitates.
For 8 weeks:
no visitors.
I picture her:
small, frail,
vacant eyes,
wondering.
#19 May 1, 2020
At the end of
a long day of
screens, news,
phone calls,
our heads meet
on the pillow
in the dark,
his dog smell
giving uncommon
comfort.
#20 May 3, 2020
Tourists at home,
we traverse new trails,
encounter ferns unfurling,
rushing waterfalls,
snapping turtles.
Back at the car,
we sanitize
our hands.
#21 May 4, 2020
As news shifts
to gradual openings,
there are more cars
on the road,
more folks outside Starbucks,
more prayers
impatience doesn’t
lead to regret.
#22 May 5, 2020
What is more sacred
than public school?
So today, when news
made official the inevitable,
I paused to mourn the power
of this invisible enemy.
#23 May 6, 2020
The relative success (or failure)
of a food delivery sways
my mother’s mood, and
governs whether her next text
will be enraged or giddy.
#24 May 7, 2020
Virus seeped onto the wing,
forcing a quick decision about
whether to move her.
Now on a strange floor
with unknown faces,
she’s even more alone.
#25 May 8, 2020
Walking the dog,
a strange man ahead,
like a compass,
draws a broad arc
around me. Ruefully
he admits he’s not afraid
of dogs, just humans.
#26 May 9, 2020
The line at Whole Foods
on Saturday mornings
is a reliable hassle
in the new normal.
But the deep rows of
cars at food banks
scream: inequity!
#27 May 10, 2020
Today is Mother’s Day.
We do our best,
sending chocolate or flowers,
gathering on lawns or screens,
knocking on windows,
waving through the glass.
#28, May 11, 2020
Layers of loss:
Study abroad, prom,
graduation, sharing
in the joy of a newborn,
school, school, school,
jobs, livelihood,
dying alone,
a leg,
life.
#29, May 12, 2020
What will history name
the patches of vegetables
that, like Victory Gardens
during the World Wars,
are now burgeoning?
Unity Plots?
#30, May 13, 2020
Two weeks stretched to 10.
Then 10 extended longer.
Now we strain to see
around the bend, the curve
too sharp to know how
the future will wend.
The Author
Tracy Kane is a curriculum designer, instructional coach, professional learning facilitator, drama integration specialist, and occasional poet. She has published several essays on arts and education. Currently, she is a district curriculum renewal coordinator for EdAdvance in Litchfield, CT. She has taught English and theatre both in public schools and in professional theatre settings. For teachers, she has conducted professional development on a variety of arts and education topics.
Tracy Kane