Browsing the "pandemic poetry" Tag

Poetry

History Lesson

October 12th, 2021 | by Margaret Elysia Garcia

(The president said Lat-tee-nex aren’t getting vaccinated because we fear documentation and deportation.  Demoralization. Department chair: don’t they realize they’re


Poetry

Breathing Lessons

September 8th, 2021 | by Katie Hoogendam

My mother died of a lung disease,one that stalked her all my life. In kindergarten, I was pulled from class, taken to the hospital,


Poetry

Praise to Bedtime During a Pandemic

March 16th, 2021 | by Ginny Wiehardt

Ode to lavender lotion, to the Alice in Wonderland recordedforty years ago, to my son’s drooping eyelids, my computer’s backlit keys, my tapping fingers tempted


Body

Advent 2020

December 21st, 2020 | by Ezra Stone

ONE: A wave of grief for everything that came before  Today, the clouds are like ribs, like my ribs close



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  • “You’ve already told me that story,” he said. Switching gears, he asked, “Why isn’t my father around?” #breastfeeding #parenting #fuckit #protest #teenagers #sexualviolence “Over time, Anabelle learned to talk about her feelings. She said saw her birthmother in the sky. She drew a picture of grief moving through her body like water. When she had more language, she began to talk about her losses.” “I’m not sure why I read that poster and thought that it applied to other mothers, other people’s children. But it probably has something to do with the shock I felt two years later when a neurologist confidently diagnosed “Autism Spectrum Disorder” and I responded with at least twenty “What about…” type questions. I had described my dynamic, interesting, loving toddler to this doctor, and her response sounded dire and clinical. That poster was the same. All of it seemed so unfortunate.” “Someone hit the call button. No one came. Someone rushed to the nurses’ station; still no one came. The contractions, a creature, twisted my uterus, lancing its nails. I tried to breathe through them, but there was no space, no time.” “But when, one-by-one, natural disasters ransacked too many of the communities we visited, including my home-state of California, I began to spiral into a grief I didn’t know how to support. I came to realize that our climate crisis wasn’t off in some far-flung future. It was here. Now. I’d birthed two perfectly good humans, boys who wanted to set up lemonade stands and play soccer, but who would be tasked instead to worry about rising seas and firestorms.” “I have to say,” my doctor said. We were still in the OR. He seemed saddened. “There was a uterine rupture. A large one. I have only seen something like this four times in my career.” “This is the part where I am supposed to articulate that taking time for myself allows me to be a better a parent, which is true. But the compulsion to footnote derives from accepting the baseline that I should feel guilty at all for taking time for myself, which I do not. I’d meet my pals for dinner, go to a movie alone, or attend a weekend bachelorette trip even if it resulted in worse parenting. Parents deserve pleasures unattached to their children.”

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