Tatsoi moth and mite
husk cherry red spider mite
short of what is done—
might a mite eat until full

Breaking apart earth
butterfly—you hang latent
ripped exoskeleton
unfurled and stretched

Steeled wings obscured
kneeling closer a still life
quieter, and perhaps, I
leave a little less curated

Photo: Ray Hennessey

Pluck a chive
Put it between your teeth

Remember all the things
Green and sweet

Sticky
Still.

Photo: Kevin Wang

—For P. G.

The gigantic weight of that arch crushing. Is it The Gateway?

My back shapes into it like a womb containing a non-denominational prayer; that chair
in the shop window that night you carried me barefoot and musing.

Are we just collected pennies? Your laughter warm on my cheek. I can still feel it & the loose change slimy beneath my toes. We jumped into the chapel moat.

Sun-dappled, Saarinen, frayed jean cuffs quietly scraping the walk, drinking under the crescent moon on the Kresge roof, playing pool in the basement, eating left over tiramisu.

How we traded nothing but, our shirts for broken camels. We smoked in the quiet, forgetting to tell each other anything.

I held your hand across my heart (even in the back stairwell.) Just passing through. I miss you.

*MIT fraternities rent rooms to outsiders (mainly students from other colleges who spend the summer in the Boston area.)

Photo: Mark Boss

y = 0

while ( y < 10 ) begin

Over and over over and over over over

Breath breathing breath breathing breath breathing

Feel the sharp of your nails

Keep ------>moving and moving and moving and moving

Draw little circles on window

O pen clO se Op en Closed

Turn dial up (turned up) Touch bass speaker

end} Anxiety

Photo: Sid Verma

Liz gets out of the shower and puts on her bathrobe. She looks over at her husband who is brushing his teeth. “Sam, do you think this is a bat bite?”

Sam continues to brush his teeth, pretending he hasn’t heard his wife over the buzz of his electric toothbrush.

“I was taking a shower and noticed these marks around my ankle. I have no idea where I could have gotten them? Do you think they could be bite marks? Sam, can you hear me?” She huffs.

She turns to face the bathroom mirror. Her vanity is neat and organized. Q-tips in a jar, moisturizer, sunblock, and face wash on a tray. They moved into this house a few years back. They loved the idea of having two separate bathroom vanities. The space and time of those morning moments forever appreciated.

“Huh.”

She looks in her mirror examining her skin. New sunspots, perhaps blemishes. She touches each new freckle looking for reassurance before applying her moisturizer. Maybe it’s just age, she thinks. Liz hesitates and decides to not pick up the tweezers. It takes constraint, and today is not a good day.

“Do you want coffee?” Sam asks as he gets dressed.

A navy-blue polo shirt and khakis. He has a uniform, and his job doesn’t even require a uniform. He thinks I’m the one with issues, Liz muses.

“Yes, I want coffee. Do you have to ask?”

Liz brushes her dark brown hair. She stops periodically to admire how patient she has been, allowing her hair to gray naturally. The strands glisten and shine though fragile. She takes a deep breath and looks at her ankle again. There are two tiny marks that look like bite marks.

“What if I die of rabies? Can you please look at my ankle and tell me I’m not crazy,” she insists.

“Liz, you are not going to die from rabies. I can’t believe this. Is this going to be like the time you became obsessed with Hantavirus?”

“What if I do nothing and it’s a bat bite?”

“Liz we are all going to die someday.”

“That is not helping. I don’t want to die. Wouldn’t it be just my luck to die of rabies from a bat bite during a global pandemic… started by a bat.”

Sam sighs. “Liz, where would you have gotten a bat bite?”

“I don’t know, but it is possible, maybe it bit me while I was sleeping.”

“Um, no. There is no evidence of a bat in our bedroom. Why do I even indulge you?”

Sam heads downstairs. “I’m going to make the coffee. Why don’t you check the bedroom for evidence of bats?” Sam says with a bit of sarcasm.

Liz still in her bathrobe, paces her bedroom floor. She tries hard not to look for bat droppings. Then she peers behind the drapes and under the bed. She picks up the mattress. Nothing indicating bats reveals itself. Not yet. She sits down on the bed.

“Maybe, I’ll be ok,” she tries to convince herself. The coffee grinds away, drowning out her intrusive thoughts for the moment. She is relieved. Worry is the layer that surrounds everything. It’s thick and hardest to permeate. To function, one must crawl around, the small spaces below completing everyday tasks. The rational layer; a sliver beneath the weight of ALL the worry.

She hears the clink of a spoon. The smell of caffeine wakes her from her stream of consciousness.

Sam is carrying two full mugs as he carefully walks back up the stairs and to their bedroom. Liz is still not dressed for the day. Sam hands her, her mug, and smiles.

“Liz, it will be ok. Drink your coffee. Then get dressed.”

Liz smiles back and says, “Thank you.”

She sips her coffee. It’s perfect. Cream no sugar. Just the right temperature. Sam sits down next to her on the bed and takes a sip of his coffee. There is quiet. You can hear the birds chirping outside and the trash truck stopping next door. Two barrels. One for trash and one for recycling. Each bang back down on the pavement.

“Maybe, it’s a spider bite?”

“Yes, maybe it is a spider bite.”

You hear it before you see it. The squawking echo high in the air. A v-formation so breathtaking. Geese moving in and out swapping sides but retaining shape. The leaders never waver, keeping a sharp pointed direction. Never distracted.

How long do they fly like this? Mary wonders as she walks back from the mailbox. Her arm is full of holiday catalogs. She tosses most of it in the recycle bin. The kids will fish them out later, and circle items on each page, marking up their requests for “must-have” toys. She laughs to herself before making her way inside the house. “Coffee, yes. Pie, maybe? Hmmm.” “Is that really a question,” she teases herself.

Mary’s husband makes the most delicious gluten free honey pie. You would never know it’s modified to exclude family allergens. It’s gorgeous and tastes like salted caramel. You can eat it with a fork or your hands. It’s all delicious. Perfectly paired with hot coffee. “Now that is love.” Lustful desire in the form of a 9” baking dish.

She grabs the coffee pot hoping it’s not empty. Her husband has a habit of filling his travel mug and leaving just the tiniest amount of coffee in the pot. She forages through the fridge for cream. It is packed with leftovers from Thanksgiving. There’s some roasted pork loin under tinfoil. “Who needs a turkey!” her and her husband joked a few days earlier. Sweet potatoes and apples roasted and dripping with pork fat. Some brussels to the left and a dish of honey pie in the center of it all.

The house is quiet, and Mary sits down to read the news. They subscribe to the Sunday paper delivery to get the online subscription discounted. Those Sunday papers also end up in the recycle bin. Where does all this recycling go? “There must be a better way,” she muses as she scrolls down possible gift ideas on Amazon before clicking on Omicron.

Omicron a new Transformer name? ‘More than meets the eye.’ An 80’s childhood admonished from planet Cybertron. Right now, it seems to be the delta between vaccinated and unvaccinated countries. Rich and poor. A place where Omicron surfaces in the ongoing pandemic. Like a distant nugatory planet far away from harm. But we all know it lies in wait. Waiting to transform. Maybe it is already here.

When Mary was younger, she felt a sort of empathy for Megatron like he was really a rogue Autobot. Couldn’t he just join forces with Optimus Prime?

Mary’s mind can’t help but wander, can good and evil come together, once and for all, in repose.

It’s been a tough year. Social distancing, masks, PCR testing. There have been a few times already when Mary has sat in her car awaiting a Covid test. This is the drill: lower car window and remove mask. Tech reaches in with a long nasal swab, breath is paused. Swipe, swipe, swipe in a circular motion. Swipe, swipe, swipe in a circular motion. Mask up. Drive away. Click repeatedly on the link until results are returned from lab.

Mary still listens to the car radio. It’s a hard habit to break even with all the convenience of far-reaching technology and podcast choices. College radio usually does the trick. Each weekday morning, after she drops the kids off at school, she listens to music well beyond her years. In reverse, remembering all the things that didn’t happen in the emaciated coolness of her forty something sweater and mom jeans.

Just before turning into the driveway, she turns off the radio and sits in the silence. The hum of the garage door opening. The birds chirping. Mary gets out of her car and walks slowly down the driveway to the mailbox. Enjoying the late Autumn sun on her face.

She muses to herself, “I am happy to be here.”