Equinox
Pictures of the virus are pretty –
like sea creatures or pin-cushioned moons
or holograms posing in semi-witty
situations beside balls and balloons
glowing with coronas, crowns, halos.
Under microscopes, SpongeBob cartoons
look fractal-similar, my own lungs aglow
with pink rods and blue cones. I'm silly
then scared. Neighbors hoard Purell, ammo
against infection. I try to chill, be
a peaceful citizen, a good locked-up
or locked-down member of society.
I'm "Baking Bad," filling measuring cups
to make pot brownies for frantic friends
and a wedding cake for Sam & Sonny's nup-
tials, virtual and queer and legal and
euphoric. We'll each dance in our Zoom box
to the host's boombox, no need to pretend
we're anywhere but in our PJs and socks,
our pink boas and perky blue face masks
(lest we're contagious). It's the Equinox,
night and day perfectly split. Sam basks
in Sonny, Sonny in Sam, a perfect fit.
Then the day goes back to quarantined tasks–
hand washing (my fingers so dry!), chit-
chatting on my Clorox Wiped iPhone,
bombarding heaven for the sad and the sick.