by Carrie Albert
I tell her, It’s here to teach self-defense.
A robotic baby cries to students, needs
unreal. A broken virus, a pretend monster,
not equipped, surfs through veins; side effects
depart swiftly. It’s not your brother’s rubbish
about altering DNA. It guards you from hospitals
and ventilators. Okay, you can question humans
acting like sheep, desperate to gather again.
But this is liquid gold, studied by clever scientists,
duplicated with precision in unsullied laboratories.
You will be able to visit Olga stuck alone in her room
for a year. Your doctor will breathe calmer;
your Lyft driver won’t need that plexiglass shield.
This is the noble thing, your small part.
Come on, I tell my body, Let’s get the jab done.
Carrie Albert is a multifaceted artist and poet who lives in Seattle. Her poems and multimedia art works have been published widely in journals and anthologies, including Indianapolis Review, About Place, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Grey Sparrow, Foliate Oak, Earth’s Daughters and most recently a poetry anthology: Canticles and Spheres (Propertius Press). Sally Lelong is a visual storyteller working in a variety of media that lend themselves to use in a conceptual framework. She lives and works in New York, and routinely exhibits her work in a variety of settings from print to thematic installations to street art.