By: Pat Phillips West
I couldn’t tell you now
what possessed me
to keep all these scribbled figures—
a metric of total cases, new cases,
total deaths, new deaths.
Bruised and roughened pages,
with crossed out lines
and smudged black erasures.
A journal, its spine broken
from opening and closing—
the daily toll I save
like pennies in a jar,
unspent. A meager noting
when what’s missing
in this calculation
is an alleluia or a lullaby
for the tired dead—
thousands of confused souls
crowding the bardo. Spirits rocking
side to side, listening for God
be with you, goodbye,
a final caress, the sound
of a bell receding into silence,
some intersection with
those left behind
who navigate a labyrinth
of grief: heads bowed,
hearts open, words unspoken—
a small fire on the tongue
that burns as only
the cold can burn.
Pat Phillips West's work appears in various journals including: Persimmon Tree, The Inquisitive Eater New School Food, Haunted Waters Press, Clover, a Literary Rag, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, and elsewhere. She has received multiple Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominations.