ride out the Corona in the saddle of famed hyperbole,
but, seriously, would you call it Splendid Isolation?
If only the only thing to fear were fear itself, or we
didn’t have to fire until we saw the whites of its eyes,
leaving me on patrol priming my radar ears awaiting
my husband’s arriving car post reconnaissance, then
flying downstairs to beat my beloved’s hands to all
the apertures. I intercept the gauntlet– doors, buttons,
knobs. “Welcome home, soldier!”  He’s in no mood.
“Go back upstairs! You shouldn’t be down here. I’ve got
this!” My blessed non-obsessive mate, but I know he’s
changing gloves the CDC sanctioned way, then kneels
on newsprint wiping off peril in cellophane which he
believes farfetched but complies to be PC, the abundance
of caution hack, hedge against feeling helpless. I know he
dropped his clothes into a virgin garbage bag when I hear
the tattoo of bare feet streaking upstairs where I lit my
warrior’s way to COVID’s new, nonsectarian Mikvah,
the shower, where he scrubs and purifies post early
morning mission, geezer hour, Whole Foods detail.

 

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Mikvah     ritual bathing place for purification according to Jewish law