Close, Closer: a quarantine love poem

Close, Closer
         a quarantine love poem

  
 breathe me 
         into a heat that flares
                 air tightening between us
  
 i burn within your eyes
         myself aflame & wondrous

 speak my name over & over
                 swirling vibrations around us

                         —antidote to isolation
 
i have loved you
         [inside of time]
                 ) outside of being (
  
         this moment is a trench

 i am the sea
         encompass galaxies of night

 you are moonrise
        & every 
                 gleaming
                         shadow



 © Lana Hechtman Ayers  

Cosmogony

 Cosmogony 
  
 Eavesdropping on night sky,
 I listen to the stars 
 whisper lines of verse
 to one another 
 across lightyears 
 in the electromagnetic
 language of god—
 each of the trillions of galaxies 
 intoning a celestial renga
 of chaos and creation.
 We humans, a mere
 comma in the endless poem.
   

Lessons from Lockdown

Lessons from Lockdown
  
 None of us can truly know 
 the heart of the innocent man 
 waiting on death row,
 though living in this pandemic
 makes us feel closer to
 believing we fathom some
 great injustice.
  
 That death is the only promise
 life ever made, is made
 more visible now 
 by this invisible virus
 soaring in and out on breath.
  
 Taking stock, taking inventory
 however you say it
 (and not just of consumables
 like toilet paper and beans)
 arrives eventually, 
 for all of us,
 days or weeks into lockdown.
  
 Whether we’ve been furloughed
 (or just plain let go) 
 from our jobs, 
 or have taken to working from home,
 we come to that urgent 
 question honestly—
 what matters most in this moment?
    
 Contemplating impermanence,
 cherished clichés come first—
 love and family and peace.
 Shelter, and safety and sustenance.
 Friends and all our faculties—
 sight and breath and movement
 most of all, 
 while touch evades
 those of us fully alone.
  
 Home is the sky
 that is always beautiful,
 and the tree that leans a little,
 the chickadees coming 
 to the feeder outside
 the kitchen window.
 The low moon swooning 
 and disappearing into the night.
 Heightened awareness
 of sweetness.
 Beloved voices arriving 
 on the various devices.
  
 Giving and grace 
 become commonplace—
 singing, composing,
 planting herbs,
 dancing at the curb,
 dropping off goodies
 for the elderly couple
 up the street.
  
 We can keep this all going,
 the simple goodnesses, 
 the heightened senses,
 even without threat of virus,
 without sacrifice.
 All that is necessary—
 a shift in attitude from 
 being among the condemned—
 to a gratitude for what is,
 for the absurdity of uncertainty’s 
 boundless lessons and blessings.  

Remembering my brother…

A decade ago on this date, my brother died of a 9-11-related illness. 
This poem is from a collection about my brother, called 
The Dead Boy Sings in Heaven. 
The title comes from all my memories having been altered by knowing 
how young he'd die, so that even in my childhood memories, 
I began thinking of my brother as the dead boy. 
He's in my heart always, but especially now, 
since he was a first responder.

The Dead Boy Cruises
      for my older brother Alan

This may be the happiest
moment of my life.
I never get to tag along
with my brother at nighttime.

I’m in the backseat
of the dead boy’s
hilarious friend Vinnie’s
red AMC Pacer,
squeezed into the middle hump
by his friends
Richard (the smart one)
and Danny (the cute one).
My brother rides shotgun.

The windows rolled down,
the stars clear,
the radio throngs
“The Night Chicago Died”
all the way up
Rockaway Boulevard.

Everyone is quiet.
All there is
is the cruise,
and the breeze,
and song after song,
that make my heart beat
likes it’s in my throat.

As if to signal a turn,
the dead boy
extends his arm
out the open window.
My brother’s hand becomes
a sail. 

Mother’s Day Gift in the Pandemic

 Mother’s Day Gift in the Pandemic
  
 As the young man comes closer 
 than three feet to hand me 
 a complementary 
 Mother's Day gift bag, 
 You may be killing me 
 is what I think but do not say, 
 feeling the heat of fury 
 rise in my throat. 
  
 I am trying to keep my mouth shut, 
 hold my breath, 
 my cotton mask no match for his youth 
 and eagerness to provide 
 cheerful customer service. 
 He has on a mask, but somehow 
 I can tell he's smiling—
 happy eyes. 
  
 He’s high school age, 
 maybe a bit older,
 wants to chat. 
 Says he's going to go 
 for lots of hikes. 
 Never has he appreciated the sun 
 so much since coronavirus,
 all this being trapped indoors. 
  
 He seems so fervent and strong 
 and maybe will have 
 a whole life ahead of him. 
 I hope so.
 Mine may be over soon 
 now that his breath has come 
 within the death radius. 
  
 He glows with health. 
 I have lived longer than 
 I ever believed I would, 
 an angsty teen thinking maybe 
 I'd make it to 21. 
  
 But the years passed with me 
 still breathing. 
 I see now even in the worst 
 of times—with my grandmother 
 dying, my violent husband
 trying to kill me, 
 my father dying, 
 my separation, divorce, 
 my best friend dying, 
 my brother dying—
 all of it was a gift 
 I had little idea how to unwrap,
 how to make use of.
  
 Now as each day is 
 a promise not made, 
 I cherish the sweetness 
 of this boy's optimism,
 my little puff of anger gone. 
  
 I have never been a mother 
 to any but four-legged creatures.
 Suddenly I have this lethal urge 
 to hug this young man—
 Coronavirus be damned—
 tell him he is wonderful 
 and loved and the world is 
 better for his presence in it. 
  
 I do neither.
 I don't know him.
 But I do wish him well
 and thank him 
 for his heroism in this time.
 I hope the world will be 
 the kind of mother 
 he needs most. 
  
 As for me, 
 today is as good a last day 
 on earth as any. 
 Though I'd rather rain 
 than this balmy sun. 
 I've had a mere five decades to 
 practice my humanity, 
 still very much a work in progress.
  
 No one ever gets it completely right
 my Buddhist coach assures me. 
 Last week she came close to 
 being in a fatal auto accident.
 The sun was not so blameless then, 
 blinding her as she came 
 around a curve. 
  
 Who would have thought us 
 as fragile as we are 
 against light and breath? 
 Today I will pet my dogs 
 and cats and hug my husband. 
 Drink tea. 
 Eat a ginger cookie or two. 
 It will be enough. More than.  

Pandemic Wonder, for Andy

Pandemic Wonder
             for Andy
  
 None of us is immune
 to death, we humans born 
 with an expiration guarantee.
 This was always the deal.
  
 So why does death feel 
 more real than ever before?
 There’s no cure or vaccine
 for the Corvid 19 yet, sure
  
 and there may never be.
 Perhaps it will rage
 through all humanity
 until only the fittest remain.
  
 How many lives will be
 claimed when this 
 pandemic is finally history?
 That, and for how long
  
 this enforced isolation will 
 continue are a fatal mystery.
 But you and I are blessed
 that while living through
  
 such stressful times, we are 
 one another’s shelter in place, 
 each other’s compassionate grace.
 And the days, however brief
  
 they may be, grow sweeter
 not in spite of, but because of
 coronavirus’ looming noose.
 We live so much closer now—
  
 as we should have done all along, 
 a gift granted by uncertainty—
 this death threat that heightens 
 and enlivens our love.