We Talk about Hope While Clinging to Darkness

March 11, 2020 
the first cloth mask 
rolls from my mother's industrial fingers, 
white strings flapping surrender 

it is my birthday 
the day the announcement 
infects the television screen 
in the small wooden rumshop 
where my girlfriends and i 
raise quaking glasses to another year 

i spend months 
ironing folds into conversations 
with small hopes 

keep glued 
to screens 
where my phone beeps five minute 
conspiracy theories 

and watch death clocks 
toll daily numbers 

my daughter's eyes 
show strain 
when she asks if hernewly minted boyfriend 
can come watch the year 
drag its final steps 
into our living room 
where our Christmas tree will soon huddle, 
asks whether his fingers 
can help her reach the top and place the angel 

and i have to say the loudest word 
that this year has built 
brick by sentenced brick 
along my wearied tongue 

no.