The school reopened. Ava approached her first grade classroom in her iron suit, double pair of blue hospital gloves, face shield that extended to her waist and multi-layered mask that curved around her small face.
Her mother said Ava was lucky. In many states, students were required to stay home.
Eliza Mimski wrote this story.
Some things happen
before we understand
what they are
We are an army of generals
in official denial
“It won’t affect us!”
A cough is released
droplets connect
and converge into waves.
The news becomes
a tragic chronicle
of fallen names
On my street
houses shuttered tight
as darkness falls.
Eliza Mimski writes poems while sheltered in place in San Francisco.
Rough and sharp, her voice is filled with demons. She hides beneath her tongue, a monster dancing before you. Angry and alert, her life is emergency. She rails and hurls insults – of course it’s all your fault.
You hold on tight and pray you’ll make it through her teenage years.
Eliza Mimski, a retired teacher, lives and writes in San Francisco, California. See more at elizamimski.wordpress.com.