(I’m delighted to post this new poem by my creative, lyrical friend Caroline Donnola)

These hours, these days

move slower than slow—

Mesmerized

by the lack of momentum

as in a slow-motion dance

or a jagged mime,

while behind the scenes

the bodies stack up

as if in a war.

 

The ones in charge don’t speak to us

about human souls.

They speak about the data, the market,

as we kiss our loved ones goodbye,

not in person, not flesh to flesh

but symbolically

through a window pane—

our distress a stark crescendo

as the dearly departed

wait to be buried,

their bodies turning ripe.

 

Those of us who are well

and still employed

feel guilty

and heartbroken

and lucky—

And those feelings

haunt us

like a phantom limb.

 

In every war

survivors struggle

with waves of ‘why me’?

But we can’t afford to wallow.

We must turn this world upside down,

shake it to its very core,

and begin anew.

Anything less would be too little, too late.

And it’s already very, very late.