we strap beaks around our ears
breathe in herbs like potpourri
the air isn’t safe without it
and I haven’t seen your bare cheeks
in months, in weeks
your eyes glitter from behind plastic lenses
meant to keep you safe from me
me, who you once said was your only PPE
talk to me through a screen
—window or Windows
there’s little difference, I suppose—
and I’ll tell you about the young woman
who hung herself in the garage,
electrical cord around her neck
I’ll tell you about the lady in respiratory arrest
how the chunk of meat she coughed up
was the size of my palm
I’ll tell you about how he grabbed me by the hips
without permission, grabbing like he owned me,
this man you are fortunate to have not met
and that I wrote an incident report for the records
I’ll tell you about how my grandmother is sick
but asymptomatic, which is why I don’t feel
like answering you today, I’m sorry
but I went to the Secretary of State
almost called to see if you wanted coffee
I’d meet you on Stadium or W Main like last week
make you listen to Artemis
(because you haven’t yet for some reason)
and we could pick up where we left off
(chapter two, if I believe you)
but perhaps I am being too hopeful
meet me with your beak on
I’ll say it was meant to be broken
do you remember when we were young
and plague doctors only lived in pictures?
Just Thoughts 