Quarantine

Written by Veronica Schuder

First, inventory:

half-jug bleach,

antiseptic mouthwash

(40% alcohol, but good

enough), hurricane

lamps, mouths open

to the sky. We think

we don’t have enough.

Counting, counting, counting:

is there enough meat,

enough dry goods,

enough beans, rice, pasta,

powdered milk

in little packages?

Is there enough

detergent, detergent

for dishes, for hands,

for bedsheets, for killing it

when it comes, silent army

armed with cough and fever…

Exhausted, we signal

the silent moon for rescue.

How can we keep

things clean, keep things straight,

and keep our distance

while counting up the days,

measuring all we have

gathered against

our unmanageable hearts?

Surely, help will arrive

with briefcases and plans,

people we can fill the coffee pot for,

who will eat what we cook

and proclaim it good. Love,

we have planned all

we can. We have made lists

of our many faults and our quarrels.

We have prayed. We have counted

the gold finches flashing

through the yard each spring.

Look, there’s one now.

Light in the dark

shadows, messenger from

another dimension,

singing its tiny song.

Here’s the pale green of spring

and a cool wind that says

there’s life yet to come.

Look, here. There’s plenty.

There’s more than enough.

There’s love.

Veronica Schuder has been teaching writing in the English department at Louisiana Tech since fall 2000. Her poems, creative essays, and criticism have been published extensively in literary journals all over the United States and abroad including “SoFloPoJo,” “The Laurel Review,” “The Florida Review,” “War, Literature, and the Arts,” and “The New Ohio Review.” You can find some of her more recent work online at weeklyhubris.com and soflopojo.com.