By 
I guess we were pretty lucky to be arguing over bathrooms
four score ago it seems
that being stuck in our cars during rush hour
was the worst of our quarantines
when we washed our hands
when it was convenient
when we went outside for reasons
beyond just to see if we still can
when sitting next to each other staring at our phones
was the only social distancing we practiced
when bad calls against our teams
were the most egregious of our grievances
we forgot
there will be death
we’ve always been plagued by pestilence
the stench of tyranny
has always wafted through our consciences
the trenches of warfare
have always swallowed the bravest of us
hurricanes have always been chasing us
and where they can’t reach
the earth still shakes us
we are haunted by holocausts
and the ghosts of gulags and the killing fields
ravaged by cancers
and small poxes with large body counts
scarred by martyrs jabbing airplanes into our arteries
we are slaves and masters
sashaying amidst knaves and massacres
we are log cabins
charred by fires by foraged by floods
there will be blood
if you’re like me
you’ve had some spare time to mull your mortality
the scourge of our sentience
the curse of becoming literate of our livelihood
is learning
that every life story will end
with a death sentence
perhaps more perplexing
if we’re just random collections of cells
why do we even care if those cells become infected?
if we’re just passengers on a sinking ship
why does it matter when the torpedos come?
there will be ambushes
this is not what my 2020 vision looked like
this is not how I wanted to grace the pages of history
but the history of grace would say
the course might change
but the destination doesn’t
the diseases, the afflictions, and the wars might change
but the reclamation mustn’t
we remembered
we remembered the hiding places
the helping hands that surfaced when the waves abated
the shelters and shining faces
the donations
the rebuilding after the wind ran out of breath
the new gardens germinating in the wastelands the fires left
the sacrifices
the freedom those soldiers forged from their foxholes
the Clara Bartons
the Mother Theresas
the doctors the researchers
the Pasteurs and the Jenners that
vaccinated us from the fates that awaited us
the morning sunrises
the Florence Nightingales
the innovation
the Wilbers that Forced liberation
the Harriet Tubmans, the Bonhöffers
the angels that emerged from the ashes carrying our sons and daughters
there will be heroes
we don’t always get to choose our battles
but we always get to choose what side we’re on
we’re all the cough
and the cure
every body counts
I guess now we find out what happens
when the only thing emptier than the aisles
are the streets
and the only thing fuller than our feeds
are the hospital beds
we’re going to have to reach past these devices
we hold at arm’s distance
and reach for an armistice
we’re gonna have to spend our courage on something besides Twitter
we’re gonna have to retrofit our hearts
and start using them for what hearts are for
because beyond these backlit screens
is a world
that needs us more than ever
this is not just a live stream of data to agonize to
this is our occasion to rise to
this is our time to feed, to teach, to sew
to nurse, and cherish, and clothe
to get to know,
to give, to protect, to serve
to heal, and feel, and show
there will be heroes
and if death knocks on our door
let it find us
by the side of someone we would die for
in the depths of this disaster
or any that follow
let us not forget
and love and laughter
let us rejoice
for that death sentence
is only the end of a chapter
there will be more
there will be more
