CORONAVIRUS IN CHINA
I. Coronavirus in the Neighborhood
We smiled through facemasks,
said hello with our brows,
held open doors
to remind each other
we were still here. Miss Chen the grocer
was gone, back to her hometown.
Old Li the barber was gone,
along with his radio. Zhou the locksmith
only left a phone number, Min absconded
with her cherished regrets, and
the Zhang family, who made flatbread,
never returned: Gone
for the new year
, the sign
on their door read.
Those of us still here
nodded knowingly, sidestepped
couriers zipping down our alleys
on our way to Tang’s noodle shop.
The sky is nice, we grunted. The air clean.
We were surrounded by kindness that barely
seemed real. Our throats itched for coal
and tar. Whatever else we craved,
of insurrection or speaking truth
to bureaucracy, whatever small
bonuses we desired for ourselves
or ailments we nursed, of anger
or temperatures, we did it indoors.
We pulled our curtains and waited
until the kettle screeched, then said
exactly what we had always wanted.
II. Coronavirus in the Streets
The viruses had first and last names
until there were too many to count.
We grafted masks onto their faces
and by that point, what did names
matter? We locked them in
boxes, sealed those boxes within
larger boxes built in ten days. But
still they leaked out into the streets,
confused, bumping randomly
into people who could not see. Watch for them
, we whispered,
but to us they all looked
the same. We practiced saying plague
, a fun word, and some of us
wished for it, because why not. Alas,
it was hard to overcome our hardwiring,
animal instinct to survive even
if we knew we were doomed.
We stalked the side alleys with déjà vu
feeling we’d done this before, back
in another lifetime—spying
on neighbors, reporting family, mantis arms
and wheels of history
misery enforced as baseline.
In a way, we are all the same disease.
To survive humans, you have to give up
humanity—so says the tyrant within.
Our lungs cracked like sheet ice. Breath
whistled through our veins like steam. We searched
for sickness, but there was only sharpness, like guilt.
III. Coronavirus in the Bedroom
The virus watched, nose pressed
against the window, but the lovers
didn’t notice, they rolled like bonobos, shaking
the bed. We heard through our walls,
which means they could hear us, too,
shaking in ways animals can,
forgetting—forgiving—our limbs, our
organs, all the ways our rococo parts
can thrash, can work toward climax, can spoil,
omphalos of all the worlds where we
exist, our vigor omnidirectional.
On the other side, our other neighbor
pounded on the wall. Damn
, we thought, could he not
take it up with the virus, out there?
Of course, we knew we were being
unfair. The virus was here to stay.
We could sense it even now, lonely
virus shivering in the cold,
eyes alit upon the ecstasy unfolding,
time and everything stopped, its breath
fogging up our window, trying to leave
a reminder, its mouth curled in an O,
. And, Bravo!
IV. Coronavirus in the Imperial Garden
The virus is an enemy that fights without rules
but it lacks resolve. It lacks country.
We speak this way inside the Imperial Garden
in the Office of Epidemic Prevention
and Control to remind the people
who is in control—of who has not
abandoned them, who can lift fog,
move mountains and rivers. What would you sacrifice for your home,
which is your country? We will discipline failures
on a pillar of shame. We will stay upbeat.
We spared a thought for the city besieged
in the province of one thousand lakes;
we heard a man leapt off Simen Gate bridge,
but truth is what we say. The poet says
truth is what’s proclaimed before judgment,
but what does it matter? The good doctor
died despite believing. We do not believe—
we know how the system works, how numbers
are reported, what newscasters mean when they
stipulate faith in the Ultimate Arbiter.
“Do you understand?” is a rhetorical question. Would you choose
People over people,
country over self, Party over family?
We tore down mahjong parlors, demanded
whereabouts, asked others to set an example,
maintain distance, sleep in separate beds. Be patriotic
. At home, our real homes, we huddled
closer than before. We feared if—when—we came
out of this, they would see clearer than ever.
V. Coronavirus in the Air
Masks. Wearing them,
we were more aware
of the other.
Our eyes locked more often,
for longer, searching for provocation,
down to conjunctiva.
We experimented with sounds,
soughing and snuffling,
and remembered the lessons
our cats and dogs had taught:
ears back, head tilted. We were polite
to those we did not care for,
widening our expressions,
softening our brows
to say we understand the feeling.
But occasionally, next to a body
we leaned toward,
we grimaced with yearning,
with agony and despair that we could not
rip off these masks and laugh
at our poor nerves aflutter. Our gazes
settled on cloudshadow and withy,
old tiles upon rooftops and dragon wings
rippling the pale blue. We saw the ways
we merge with the world, with the air,
taking into our lungs
the trees, the purslane in pavement, the rewards
for being who we are. Magic
, we said
to ourselves, forgetting what we were afraid of.
VI. Coronavirus in the Heart
We stopped saying hello.
We infected with caprice, infected
ones we love with doubt,
those we dislike with conviction;
with memories of the gone,
which is an exacting affliction,
afflicted as we are with the same disease;
avoidable if we weren’t simply ourselves;
with truth blasted out like a sneeze
we’d meant to keep in. We sighed
in bed, patted the outline of body next to us,
soothed by the warm hiss of the shower.
The virus was gone, and in those early days
we filled its vacuum with energy and humor;
then with our sense of what is righteous,
trying to infect others. In our purgatory
we had learned what was meant by
“human condition,” and now
we wondered what was worth celebrating. A triumph for humanity
, the news trumpeted
while we questioned if we deserved it.
We leaned away from bodies, stopped
holding doors. We dragged our feet
on office carpets, poured coffee without smelling.
We looked mockingly on those still masked,
forgetting the ways we are infectious.
We walked the streets like sorrowful ghosts.
With two fingers we rubbed our chest,
wondering what was missing.