Full cycle of the moon we’ve been at this in West Virginia,
some states longer, others not enough. Four weeks,
twenty-eight days, six hundred & seventy-two hours
(give or take) of hiding, sheltering out of rational fear
of infection. Not much compared to four hundred &
twenty thousand hours of preferring not
because the world exists, & people in it with emotions,
judgments, looks, words, but I never kept worries of death
in the anxiety pocket of my cargo pants. I shiver
as if a copperhead nests under my bed. I can’t see it—
mean, vigilant. Kroger’s has deadly scorpions loose,
ignoring arrows, skittering down the aisles.
The pharmacy shoots darts tipped with tree-frog poison.
Even my girlfriend, who never leaves her apartment,
births black widows on her tongue. It could be true,
could be not. I don’t believe it, do. Twenty-eight days
of walking past graveyards at night, alone
except for the whispers. I had to use a calculator
to write this poem. There were other numbers
I could’ve chosen: days in prison, days on drugs & off.
I stopped because I couldn’t figure out how
to enter dread plus dread & get a sum.
Numbers can be negative, irrational, or an infinite string
after the decimal. I choose my numbers carefully:
forty-two thousand dead, twenty-six of them here.
So far, I’m not one of them. One:
the number of tries it takes to get that wrong.
June 15th, 2020