Member-only story
Coronavirus Dreams
The dark hours
My coronavirus dreams are a stew of fear and loss
and longing and flight.
No longer on the long path, searching and walking in an endless cycle —
he is sitting on a couch, scheming of a new place to kiss me.
I am aware of this hard won comfort.
I kiss him with everyone watching.
It’s not strange but it is satisfying.
When I wake up he’s been there and I’m in bed sleeping
and this man’s shoulders are bone and flesh
and my hand fits there.
Coronavirus feeds anxiety just enough to free it.
I can’t help but notice how my life is following a shallow script.
And I’m laughing along with the track.
Nobody has a clue.
When I fly my feet touch the ground and push off.
Will keeps me aloft.
It’s always been this way.
Coronavirus has me back in the capsule.
I’d call it a cocoon but it’s more like a straight-jacket.
Except I’m neither crazy nor Houdini.
I’m coping but only because I know the terrain.
