Self-Portrait as Virus

I do not think, therefore I am 
this: virus. In the blink of an eye, 
I becomes we—whee! 
around the world in forty days—
on ships, buses, jets. 

We are homeless yet at home 
everywhere, thriving on the random, 
the casual, the chaos trailing after.
Sneeze and we shower you 
with blessings, expelled equally 
from the mouths of liars and lovers. 

Like blame there's plenty for everyone. 
We nestle in the soft tissue close 
to your heart. We speed through, 
won't let you catch your breath. 

It's true we need you
more than you need us,
but hey, look up: it's breezy spring, 
birds sing carelessly,
and we're all dancing to
Nowhere to run to, baby,
nowhere to hide. 

Because we see only a sliver 

of the mirror of the universe 
we shiver at the tarnished 
shards that distort 
what we once believed.

The streets sizzle all summer. 
A cruel ruler spews 
men's darkest thoughts
to applause and mean grins. 
Men come to our downtown diner
with guns on their hips.

Ignorance 
is not innocence—just read Blake.

Some pray to a heavenly king 
to send His white angels for a reckoning.
Some hoard their silver.
Some read alone. 
Some want to die.
Some sing in the park with their neighbors.

What do we do with all this grief and anger 
weighing down, waiting in, our hearts?

Stars shed their dusty light
on all we do not know.

Debra Kaufman is the author of the poetry collections God Shattered, Delicate Thefts, The Next Moment, and A Certain Light, as well as three chapbooks, many monologues and short plays, and five full-length plays. Poems are forthcoming in Tar River Poetry, Poetry South, and NC Literary Review. She produced Illuminated Dresses, a series of monologues by women in Raleigh, NC, and adapted Paul Green’s 1936 antiwar play, Johnny Johnson. http://www.Debrakaufman.info