by Kirsten Morgan
In these Damoclean months
we have become
skin stretched over a secret we can’t parse.
Does the virus lurk in our geography?
How can we put our feet
on ground that heaves like broken breath?
Why bother with words
when our lungs might soon dissolve
beneath the spider’s bite?
Strung with the glitter
of prayers and nostrums,
and witchy midnight chants
we could still turn to ash at any moment,
each breath a choking,
each sound a stone.
Kirsten Morgan is a longtime member of Lighthouse Writers in Denver. A graduate of its Poetry Book Project, she writes poetry and memoir, taught writing for many years to children of all ages and founded and taught a program for homeless women in a day shelter. She currently facilitates a weekly writing group and teaches for a lifelong learning program through the University of Denver. Publication journals include Gyroscope, Twyckenham Press, Three Elements Review, Human Touch Journal and others. She’s also busy at work on a “plague journal,” a collection of observations and anecdotes that help maintain her sanity during these months of quarantine. Varada J.M is a 9th-grader based in Kerala’s Koyilandi, studying at Rani Public School, Vadakara. After hurriedly doing homework, Varada divides her time between practicing classical dance and watching horror films. She loves dogs but nobody at home wants one.