human lungs are the perfect host
smooth, slippery, covered with fragile cilia
waving rhythmically like underwater sea fans
keeping airways clear of dirt and mucous
human lungs are the perfect host
for the single strand RNA that waits
for us to touch our faces,
open our mouths, breathe in droplets
so they can take root in the spongy organ,
imbedding then spreading, its spikes
clogging and crystallizing–
how beautiful it must be if it were not so horrific
this microscopic protein molecule,
proud with crowns and protected by fat,
alters genetic codes and the race is on,
aggressor and multiplier cells running rampant
until they decay on their own, needing
moisture and darkness to stay stable-
lungs are the perfect host
lungs are the perfect host
we create barriers as thick as a bank vault
remain inside because going outdoors
is playing roulette with death
the numbers are growing by the minute
confirmed, deceased, recovered
confirmed, deceased, recovered
millions of collective bodies producing
massive amounts of heat fighting back
with fevers – their only defense –
and the ones who succumb decay,
caskets accumulating in ice hockey rinks in Spain,
lining the streets in Italy, the beaches in Brazil
How can the psyche process so much grief?
so much falling to your knees kind of grief
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
June Jackson is a retired hospice social worker, grief counselor, and grandmother to 11 children. She founded her high school literary magazine and contributed poems to it. Originally from Connecticut, she has lived in the Inner Sunset in San Francisco for 20 years. This is her first published work since high school.