Poetry from Quarantine

Distanced

Two backyards over

an old woman

coughs.

Fingers strung with weeds,

I flinch at the sound

and begin my calculations.

It was a dry cough,

I’m certain, but the yards

are wide and fenced high

and there is no wind.

I judge the distance

safe

and return to the dirt.

I pinch intruders low and hard

the way my mother taught me

yanking them by the root

so they claim no purchase here

where hydrangeas straggle

among coastal succulents

and perennially fail

to thrive.

I cannot think of my mother,

2,030 miles from now,

feeding her hens and fading

daily, into the farm. I cannot

think of my father, who

will not believe his 77 years

make him vulnerable.

What have they touched

in the last seven days,

where have they traveled

and what have they borne home

to take root?

I cannot make my mind

mechanical. I pinch at the

roots and pull.

-LaDonna Witmer