Inside the virus there is a room. Inside the room,

a man. In the man’s hand, an ancient mace. But wait,

he’s not a man. He’s an instruction manual, a step —

by-step to illness. But you are sleepy and misread

Every coronavirus infection starts with a virus particle

as a virus parade, and in your mind, you see it,

a drill team holding a banner that reads COVID-19

and band of genetic material playing drums,

saxophones, flutes. There are floats of hand sanitizer,

baton twirlers in masks. And tonight, you feel somewhat

safe as you are at home watching from your window,

confetti falling down city streets where no one stands.



We’re running a Coronavirus poem once a week, after a call for submissions. You can read more information, and a listing of the poems, here.