Passing Through

By Janet Ferguson, Lambeau, Trinidad and Tobago

wet rinsed morning
wipes the face
the wind whispers
tide at the door

listen

up north
they say
black death knocked
swiftly entered
sat at the high table
dipped into low places
sprawled in unexpected spaces
belched
masks, hazmat suits, test kits
virtual networks, work-from-home
stay at home yoga, Yo-Yo Ma
home-baked-bread-jam
Toilet paper
old dead bodies
and more beaten wives

life will never be the same
how will we regroup, go forward
set the past wrongs right?

Now what?

last evening
the sun fell
night shadows
crept across a Caribbean sky
an old man
seated in the south
watched the world
he whispered
“This thing, it’s passing through”

later it rained…
well into the morning

(Author’s note: There is no intention here to express the views of any group of people. During the worst of the virus, I was able to draw comfort from the wisdom of an octogenarian. Thank you, Sir.)