Pandemic in July

My grandma, more at risk this week than last,

doesn’t fear dying, but suffering— 

she says I’m not afraid to go somewhere.

It’s 7pm on Wednesday and the shadows

grow long in the sun. A bluejay calls 

through the darkening underbrush,

chooses a branch on which to rest. 

Every evening, singing from 

the growing darkness. The sun slips down 

behind the yellow fold of the mountain,

everywhere this haze. These days, 

southern heat bleeds together smooth and rich— 

a stream over stones— life giving and muddy:

my love looks like absence. Tonight,

a shimmering veil of darkness, 

and, tomorrow, more singing: here or there. 

AS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN SIMPLE MACHINES: ENGINES OF CHANGE LITERARY MAGAZINE IN THE FALL OF 2021