I. Self-quarentine

As soon as it’s easier to live
faster, less impressionable, the
things we can’t unknow, like
islands of memory, will wash 
up on the shores of consciousness
unpronounced like earthquakes
or pandemics.  

Your father will 
be standing right beside us 
like a governor smiling 
right beside us and he will
break his fast of words
uttering a considerable 
amount of language, his 
face shinning with makeup
and age.  

Us looking at our hands,
the beach, nothing but bacteria
suddenly the past is filled with
handrails and staircases, 
unsterilized doorknobs and 
public restrooms. Nights we 
should’ve been with our 
mothers.  

The money-time clock stops,
our notion of commodity is
once again our cave. Nothing
but our walls to speak of
animals.

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