Two Poems
Memories from a lost year
I received my second dose of the vaccine yesterday, and I’m feeling grateful, hopeful, and just a little under the weather. One of the things that will always stick with me from this experience is the smoothness of the operation.
I received both shots at the Javits Center in Manhattan where the National Guard had been deployed to streamline the process. It was orderly, calm, and purposeful, like a curtain fell between me and the comparative chaos of 10th Avenue as I stepped through the doors.
The Javits is normally host to large conventions, swarms of people with badges announcing their name, company, and position, and the longest line for a Starbucks outpost you’ve ever seen. A year ago, Javits was reimagined as a COVID-19 hospital, and today it’s been reconfigured again as the largest vaccination site in the state.
Its the first humanitarian mission I’ve seen up close, and after months of lamenting the American response to clear and present danger, my response bordered on something like pride for the shared mission of vaccinating as many people as possible each day.
It wasn’t sexy, but it was efficient. And after a year of uncertainty, being told exactly where to go, what you needed to bring with you, and what to expect moving forward was like sinking into a warm bath.
Two Poems
Around the time Javits was being used to treat COVID-19 patients at the height of the lockdown in New York, I wrote two poems. One was a response to the increasingly despairing ambulance sirens and newspaper headlines, what felt like the only news to reach us in our captive state.
The second was an effort to escape, dreams and memories offering distraction from the gruesome reality outside. They’re snapshots of our collective journey, and I’m glad to share them with you as we look forward.
luggage
I get the death
toll delivered
every morning
How do I report
a delivery problem
body on top of body
stacked like wood
outside my door
The best way to report
a delivery problem is online
waiting to be
claimed like
luggage
In order to re-schedule delivery,
you must call before 10:00 AM
every person
the same
black bag
——————————
the fishbowl of memory
When you sleep without dreaming
it’s called a timeshare,
someone else is in your dreams right now,
but you should be able to get back
by Tuesday.
Do you breathe
in a dream or is it like sticking
your head into the fishbowl of memory?
You thought you saw their face
once as you inhaled
the scene, but the water
was still rippling