& so the question
comes down to
whether to
stay or go
after all.
although not even
the most prescient
among us thought to
ask the ceiling this:
what cost does any kind
of future come to?
is this the day
i grow the tiniest death
within these walls
hoping for a dirge
to bring me out
of this fatal ounce of living?
how distanced must i become
a poet growing smaller
with each language forgotten
- including the language of touch?
(i regret that i have
but one death
to choose)
& even though there is little chance
of remembering much more
than i could write
in any single space
i still distract myself
by calling memories
on
the
phone
in the middle of the night
to remind me
of when i was never young
& so
naturally
less alone
than i am
now.
(there is never any answer)
©Adrienne Veronese
from Poems Behind the Mask: 40 Quarantine Poems From Humboldt County
Photo by Adam Nieścioruk on Unsplash
