Distancing 37
New York, May 2020
If, from my ashes, surreptitiously scattered in the park, dumped into a sound or an ocean, Czechoslovakians might be born, we could then possibly transcend, finally, nation-states on our paper holograms. That the land instead become Central Europe, the Balkans Southeast Europe, no longer Balkanized. Not or but and. Turtles do not reincarnate; they simply keep on living. Trudging their beds from Dhakar to Berlin, fine-tuning the difference between their RAM and their hard drive. An order of passing.
Cornelius Lawyer, 84, was a sharecropper’s son.
Michael Sorkin, 71, was a champion of social justice through architecture.
Lorena Borjas, 59, was a transgender immigrant activist.
Frank Gabrin, 60, an ER doctor, died in his husband’s arms.
Thomas Waters, 56, armed the affordable housing movement with data and analysis.
Kimarlee Nguyen, 33, a writer who inspired her Brooklyn high school students.
Israel Sauz, 22, a new father.
Myles Coker, 69, freed from life in prison,
The newspaper said. My mouth kisses no carnations, especially pink ones, nor chrysanthemums. Give me peonies; give me no imminent lips but those I will kiss for decades to come. Their absences just a bit less conspicuous this year, for I am ensconced this spring, trying to soften my shell. I make no pilgrimages to pay my respects, to the cemetery or to a lux, overpriced Sunday brunch. Tulips fill the sidewalks, dogwoods, apple blossoms, purple allium bulbs, bearded irises. Laid bare, casting away niceties, the pretense of normalcy; the precariat’s willow, weeping, hyperventilating now.
The newspaper said. My mouth kisses no carnations, especially pink ones, nor chrysanthemums. Give me peonies; give me no imminent lips but those I will kiss for decades to come. Their absences just a bit less conspicuous this year, for I am ensconced this spring, trying to soften my shell. I make no pilgrimages to pay my respects, to the cemetery or to a lux, overpriced Sunday brunch. Tulips fill the sidewalks, dogwoods, apple blossoms, purple allium bulbs, bearded irises. Laid bare, casting away niceties, the pretense of normalcy; the precariat’s willow, weeping, hyperventilating now.
Verla Courey, 88, a nurse with a love for language.
Skylar Herbert, 5.
Celia Yap-Banago, 69, had been planning to retire in April.
Valentina Blackhorse, 28, an aspiring leader in the Navajo Nation.
Terry Thompson, 75, never knew anything but work.
Kenneth James Godwin, 94, could spit a watermelon seed halfway across a double lot.
Even as we fear it sneaking upon us from Hades or Mictlantecuhtli, it pounces from above. Upon 100,000 so far, in this country alone, with its flight restrictions, Zapata County eminent domain. Whether 5 or 100, premature.
Even as we fear it sneaking upon us from Hades or Mictlantecuhtli, it pounces from above. Upon 100,000 so far, in this country alone, with its flight restrictions, Zapata County eminent domain. Whether 5 or 100, premature.
Georgianna Glose, 73, was a renegade nun who ran a nonprofit anchor in Brooklyn.
Margaret Busha, 89, would stay awake on the night shift because she didn’t want anyone to die alone.
His love of wildlife and the marshes fueled his soul. His name was Stewart Markham Fish, 58.
Adelfo Ruiz Calvo, 65, worked at the Pilgrim’s Pride poultry processing plant.
Wee Chu Wong, 90, worked long, hard hours and still made time for everyone.
The family of Mary Ann Yazzie, 96, believed she would have stayed with them through the traditional Navajo lifespan of 102 years.
Maria Tassiopoulos, 78, made the best baklava ever.
From glistening crowns and serrated border walls, from wars and a reliance upon seasons. From fear of paper ballots, from daily conferences. From growing up with sickness as sin and muscling through. The spike, envelope, and membrane proteins create a casing, fusing with the host cell, inflaming alveoli, filling our upside down trees with fluid and debris. Ground-glass opacity, but microbes are but pawns. By executive order, 3,000 steaks a minute, slicing their shoulders. By 1,000 cuts, by a million, by a trillion. From efficiency, most vulnerable, bits of tenderloin. By executive order, whether 5 or 100, veal.
Spring is typically when we flirt, when we unearth, when we speech, when we speech more, with. Others commune with the dead after the harvest moon, my family sweeps tombs after the spring equinox. The sight of her toddling-- quickly, like a penguin-- to the window several times a day, standing there like a cat in a children’s storybook. A cozy perch, or a prison, or a portal. Give me rainbow hair at golden hour, a mid-morning engagement party on the sidewalk, with cheesy-ass saxophone in the light rain. To maintain noise as a social practice. To console her, all those I hope remain implacable. Inspired by Turrell, I attempt to make peace with the shifting elements, but I read that he shut down his installation in the Queens Museum. Now, a luxury condo scrapes the sky he framed.
From glistening crowns and serrated border walls, from wars and a reliance upon seasons. From fear of paper ballots, from daily conferences. From growing up with sickness as sin and muscling through. The spike, envelope, and membrane proteins create a casing, fusing with the host cell, inflaming alveoli, filling our upside down trees with fluid and debris. Ground-glass opacity, but microbes are but pawns. By executive order, 3,000 steaks a minute, slicing their shoulders. By 1,000 cuts, by a million, by a trillion. From efficiency, most vulnerable, bits of tenderloin. By executive order, whether 5 or 100, veal.
Arlene M. Horowitz, 78, was, is, a rising phoenix.
Rosemary Hoell Rushka, 89, went to college at 45.
Melford Henson, 65, fell ill in prison shortly before he was to be released.
Carlos Ernesto Escobar Mejia, 57, was the only one in his family unable to get a green card.
Merlene Sue Hughes, 67, known as the “Bookie,” would take and place bets on anything.
Oscar López Acosta, 42, died after being released from ICE detention.
Janice Lin Bisley, 70, the absolute favorite of all her nieces and nephews.
Annie Glenn, 100, champion of people with speech disorders.
Spring is typically when we flirt, when we unearth, when we speech, when we speech more, with. Others commune with the dead after the harvest moon, my family sweeps tombs after the spring equinox. The sight of her toddling-- quickly, like a penguin-- to the window several times a day, standing there like a cat in a children’s storybook. A cozy perch, or a prison, or a portal. Give me rainbow hair at golden hour, a mid-morning engagement party on the sidewalk, with cheesy-ass saxophone in the light rain. To maintain noise as a social practice. To console her, all those I hope remain implacable. Inspired by Turrell, I attempt to make peace with the shifting elements, but I read that he shut down his installation in the Queens Museum. Now, a luxury condo scrapes the sky he framed.