—March, 2020
While the paperwhites bloomed,
they prepared the morgues.
I’d watched them since January,
at first lifting bulbs
from their pebbled beds, checking
for roots. They reminded me
of teeth, those first pale roots,
but the paperwhites’
only meal was light
and water and the work
of transformation. The green cells
swelled towards sun. Can any
priest perform such a sacrament?
A woman I know set up tents
with the DMORT team,
took a plane to LA, then New York.
And when the mouths opened,
they opened on long, narrow
legs of spring while the world
outside remained frozen.
Their scent followed me
wherever I moved in the house,
not beautiful but thick. Every day
I checked the numbers
and breathed that scent.
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