Dandelion, Sea Anemone, Hummingbird
Image/CC0 Public Domain.
By Krista Lukas
Cor
Ona
V
Irus
Disease -- of the year 20
1
9
COVID-19
A microbial jack-in-the-box
that can slip in closed, slip in unseen,
pop open any time. Pop open and begin
making of itself copy after copy after copy.
Blown up with color, it becomes a succulent
with a dash of purple.
Corona: crown in Spanish, a lovely word,
as the virus itself is lovely, in its wicked, deadly way.
As if I’m in a funhouse, it jumps out at me—
a peacock weathervane, a mandala,
a tangle of curled ribbons, a paint splatter,
even the back of a waiting room chair.
I post on social media an out-of-context photo:
What does this look like?
Lilies of the Nile, dandelions, x-rays of sea anemones,
jellyfish, coral, daisies, like, like, like.
Along with these, I see neurons, sunspots, a distant galaxy.
Image/Richard Ling, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.
Image/CC0 Public Domain.
Image/Andrea, Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
Corona
Crowned, Floral
Floating, Rolling, Spinning
Jellyfish, Coral, Physician, Hospital
Coughing, Wheezing, Aching
Infectious, Stealthy
Corpse
Image/smallcurio, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.
It first leaped from animal to human in Wuhan, China, at a live animal market, likely from a bat. Other animals are susceptible: birds, cats, dogs, wolves, foxes, rabbits, hamsters, cows, lions, tigers, snow leopards, and mustelids such as weasels, otters, wolverines, martens, ferrets, and most importantly, minks. Those who work on mink farms should take precautions because it can spread from human to mink, then rapidly from mink to mink, then back to human.
Lulled by the word “farm,” I google mink farm images and am sickened by the minks pressed together in cages; minks with open wounds; minks pawing the wire; minks with sad, desperate eyes. They live in cages stacked four high. Some resort to cannibalism. Others lie face up in rows, waiting. Dead minks tangled together, shoveled into dumpsters for incineration. Denmark alone killed 17 million minks, some of which were buried improperly and began to rise, (let’s call them zombie minks), “swollen with the gases of decomposition.” All for luxury coats, hats, and muffs. Fortunately, Queen Elizabeth II will wear faux fur from now on, but will not discard the real fur lined robes she’ll need for ceremonial occasions.
Again, I Awake
Again, I awake in a future life,
glimpse a calendar with a future number on it.
Next time a nurse wants to know the year,
I try to remember. Something thirty-five?
When my husband appears, I ask, what millennium is it?
He says, millennium, that’s always the hardest one.
I am dismayed. If millennium is hard,
what about century? What about year?
My husband has something to say. He has moved on—
married someone new, has children with her.
He speaks a language I don’t recognize.
He explains, as kindly as such a thing can be explained:
He cannot take me in.
My mother is angry he said this, and he is furious with her:
she does not want me either.
I overhear my sister and her husband talking—
their kids, the farm, how busy they are.
We all know what my diagnosis means.
My family thought I was gone already
I have been forgotten.
Image/NIAID, Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
The pandemic: the beginning of having to push people away. The beginning of pretending everyone is infected, including mail carriers, garbage collectors, clerks, neighbors, friends, family, me. It’s the beginning of relief when others step away, as I do, to maintain the minimum distance, and frustration when they don’t. Hiking with a friend on the Tahoe Rim Trail off HWY 50, we dodge several hikers, one of whom even says, “Thank you.”
“Just trying to be safe.”
“I thought you would. You seem like a kind person.”
I hope I’m a kind person, but I wonder what makes me look kind. My floppy hat, poles, my face behind my sunshades?
Farther along, through the tall stands of pines, the peace of a lake view, my friend is ahead, already at the parking lot. I’m nearing it but see in my way a group of hikers clustered around a sign. I have no easy way to pass, and assuming they’ll finish soon, I scramble up the slope to wait. The noise of cars pollutes the air; they’re lingering, and finally a man notices me. “Let’s let this lady pass,” he says.
A woman among them says, “Why?” And with a glance at me, “What’s wrong with her?”
They head off, and I don’t know if anyone hears over the traffic when I say, “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
I am shaken by her unkindness. Does she not know the guidelines, not believe them, or consider them to be a violation of her rights? Is she a conspiracy theorist, believing the virus was created in a lab and set free, or that the vaccine will allow Bill Gates to read our minds? Does she make a scene at stores when she’s asked to cover her face, shouting that she’s not sick, and it’s been proven that masks don’t work? She’s not breaking any law, so go ahead and call the police. Does she want to drink baking soda or inject herself with bleach? Does she believe it’s no worse than influenza? That the malaria drug hydroxychloroquine is a miracle treatment? That the virus comes from high-speed internet? Is a bioweapon? Fake news? That it was sent to us by extraterrestrials? That it rose from the sea?
Social Media
Masks as accessory choice
Questioning life choices
Settling into an unsettling situation
Finding oneself
Stillness
Acknowledgement that the USA REALLY does have inequalities in income; housing; education; respect and dignity toward all. It was the first time the reality of homelessness touched some previously housed folks. It was the beginning—hopefully not just a moment—of compassion toward others in our “me first” culture.
A deeper understanding of “privilege power”
Birds, squirrels, and animals make delightful family members.
Realizing Ron and I can both work from home for months without killing each other
Extreme gratitude for my domestic partner, whose culinary talents are now even more appreciated.
Zoom yoga. Zoom classes. And Zoom Happy Hour. Or maybe just Zoom everything.
My garden, a place
where hummingbirds flit
blossom to blossom
Photo/Scott A. Lukas.
Krista Lukas has read her work, served on panels, and taught workshops in the United States and Europe. Her essays, short stories, and interviews have been published in The Sun, Jewish Women's Literary Annual, and Los Angeles Review of Books. She is the author of a poetry collection, Fans of My Unconscious, poems from which were published in The Best American Poetry 2006 and The Writer's Almanac.
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