Arpeggio in Lockdown
Here it is then, lumps in the lymph nodes,
crackles, wheezing
sepia-hued loops.
Nowhere familiar, Daughter,
clutching monochrome negatives
glassed-in gardens, old city gates
mutilating the image of a photograph
stacking cells into orange moving crates
chronic sarcoidosis, lung disease that
carried you to a plague
Côte-Saint-Luc borough
on Avenue Caldwell near Chemin Kildare
playing broken chords
acoustic guitar arpeggio
draws us into a plum moon
psychiatric outpatient
anxiety disorder.
“Filthy!”
“Lazy!”
Obsessed with hand washing.
Regressing to a ten-year-old
the brain fog, fatigue
half-remembered fables
printing out pages, shuffling
the urban underclass.
Nothing, there is nothing
poisonous apothecary.
This Covid-19 pandemic.
I need to call you, Daughter.
Hear your voice.
