Writing sprawled out on the ground,
tenth week of lockdown.
The museums are tombs,
the streets unclogged arteries
never drained this low before.
My hands and feet feel bound.
A mask to buy bananas in this lockdown.
I’m a handmaid in a dystopia,
tell my sisters six feet away, ‘blessed day’
waiting for the horn to hit the cornucopia.
Which Grinch stole the schoolyard’s sound?
Empty classrooms echo off the lockdown.
Icy walk through the brittle park,
curfew trails after your jog,
just make sure to stride before dark.
Something about me that I’ve found
living in the bubble during lockdown.
Hair vining below my chest,
books and bathtubs instead of bars,
my voice hibernating in a winter rest.
Lockdown, I’m lying still at your behest.
Lockdown, they say you’re here, and it’s for the best.
Lockdown, just remember you’re an intruder not a house guest.