Coda to Kent Stage

To be lost inside the eye
of a virus, to shiver
from the sensation
that this condition is

permanent, to forget
what was so crucial
to say to you last night
is to be a human dropping

to her knees
to cushion the crash.

To Widow a Name

is no accident, is my passive
aggressive mapping of my own
heart. I know

it is not what you are
called (or those few choice
words we exchanged)

that made me sick. I know
my body’s internal mechanisms
are of no concern to you. Still,

I can swallow this dream—panacea
that floats to the top. To say it
aloud is too much.