Another World, a pandemic poem

 Another World
             a pandemic poem
This morning I woke in the former world, 
the world before the virus, or so I believed. 
The sun had the same kiss of brass to it 
as it does in this post Covid 19 morning. 
The scent of spring was similarly buoyant
on the morning breeze, daffodils and the early 
hyacinths. The same black-mohawked Steller’s Jay 
perched on the edge of the roof, staring down 
at the morning coastline below our hillside, 
sea dark and serene, swells horizonward with 
white crests like bobbing gulls. They may 
have been actual seagulls, this morning, 
or in that former world. A calm, lulled, 
sort of ordinary morning that brims with 
coffee aroma and the slow thoughts that come 
into focus with each sip—the necessary 
to do list—work, pets, chores. A morning that 
but for the virus could be any other. I can 
take  my cat into my arms, but not hug 
my neighbor, just home from his cataract 
surgery at the hospital. I cannot take 
the dogs for a morning stroll in 
the shuttered park, nor meet a friend out 
for lunch, nor run an errand 
just to pick up an item or two. 
Every decision in this world’s morning 
is about staying far from death’s embrace. 
About keeping each other safe. 
About love filtered through masks and screens 
and the morning light of pandemic.

Welcome to the New World, a pandemic poem

Lana Hechtman Ayers
 Welcome to the New World
 Movement in my peripheral vision’s edge
 makes me look away from the screen
 out the window in front of my desk.
 I’m barely in time to catch the tell-tale
 white head and serrated wide wings
 of an eagle—American symbol of freedom—
 before it soars over the roofline out of view.
 I’ve been staring at my computer for so long
 the words of the manuscript I’m editing 
 have become ancient hieroglyphics. 
 The sight of the cumulus-filled sky bordered 
 in blue and the rippled pink-tinged beige sand 
 and aqua green seawater below the hillside 
 is such welcome relief. Concentration has been 
 hard to achieve with the startling grief 
 I’m experiencing  during this global pandemic—
 so many losses. To look out at this bright spring day 
 one could be fooled into believing all is well. 
 Calm. People strolling the weekday beach,
 throwing frisbees or tossing balls to their dogs.
 Even the stubborn hydrangea outside my porch
 gate has come into full leaf, buds at the ready.
 But my heart will not settle into steady rhythm.
 My breath is shallow. Later, I must make my weekly
 excursion into town for food—masked, gloved,
 hatted, scarfed—looking like a nineteenth century
 immigrant just off the boat from Poland,
 wearing all of the clothes she owned at once, 
 frightened of the unknown new territory where
 communication and comfort appeared impossible.
 I wonder, is this how my grandmother felt,
 fifteen and alone, disembarked at Ellis Island
 into the blinding sunlight after weeks seasick
 in the dark bowels of the ship? Her family had sent
 her in 1918, decades ahead of the holocaust, 
 not knowing she’d be the only one of her bloodline
 to make safe passage. And how did my young
 grandmother manage her loneliness, 
 knowing no one else, everyone and everything 
 around her strange and possibly dangerous?
 I never once in all the years I knew her, nor 
 in the years since her passing, stopped to think 
 of her bravery. I never thanked her or celebrated 
 her for being the heroine she was. She made my 
 American life possible. If my grandmother could 
 muster all that courage at the tender age of fifteen 
 for a sea journey of weeks, surely, I can 
 manage as much for a simple half-hour trip to 
 the grocery store and back, in my own car,
 me a native here in my fifth decade of life.  

Beach Walk, a poem for slower times

Lana Hechtman Ayers
 Beach Walk
 Some people walk the beach
 as if it’s a job,
 striding along the shore
 with military rigor,
 head unswiveling, straight ahead,
 toward some finite goal
 of distance or steps taken.
 I’d rather stroll the beach
 my mind taking the time
 to spin, look in every direction—
 skyward, sandward, seaward, 
 sunward, cloudward, birdward,
 duneward, horizonward.
 I don’t want to miss a single 
 gull flap, or wave crest, or 
 the grey pebble shaped like an egg. 
 I need to inhale lungfuls
 of salt air, push my bare feet around,
 mounding little sand hills
 for no reason at all. 
 Breezily, or nearly still,
 I need to see the movie
 of cumulus clouds
 sailing off for distant lands,
 observe the perpetual tide 
 coming in, receding,
 coming back again.
 Broken shells are like breadcrumbs
 left by eons of time,
 reminding us how brief this beauty.
 Some days, long whips
 of seaweed tangle boulders 
 amongst the sea-worn roots
 of ancient trees 
 where we may rest 
 and listen to 
 the sea’s hallowed voice—
 singing with soughs 
 and susurrus,
 the perfect parlance 
 of patience.
 Tomorrow, I will will myself to go 
 even slower, stay late, as late 
 in the day as possible, 
 even if the beach 
 is only in my own mind, 
 for breathing this deeply is a gift
 in these sheltered-in-place times.  

Feast and Fear in the Time of Coronavirus

Lana Hechtman Ayers

Feast and Fear in the Time of Coronavirus
 My weekly trip to the grocery store
 equally may provide sustenance and death.
 I go knowing that along with 
 the apples and eggs, I may be carting
 home coronavirus to you, my love,
 whose immune system is on lockdown
 for trying to assassinate 
 your body’s entire vascular system. 
 How is it we have come to this,
 humankind so at odds with nature,
 even our very own?
 Scientists say the teeny virus isn’t alive, 
 exactly, just a bit of protein that possesses 
 our same uncanny drive to reproduce, 
 replace, and colonize everything
 not itself with acres of its progeny.
 O, the irony of being done in 
 by a beast with our selfsame gluttony.
 But love, for this moment now,
 let us set aside these fears and feast 
 on eggs and apples, allow me 
 to nourish you with all the love I can, 
 every sacred mouthful.