INSOMNIA CHRONICLES LIX

by Erin Murphy

The night is full of insomniacs googling insomnia. When I hear contempt, I think contretemps. Instead of raging hatred, I see mild embarrassment, two girls showing up at prom in the same dress. Better yet, contra dance: two lines of partnerless dancers, a caller announcing moves to the beat of fiddles and mandolins. Years ago, a contra dancing club met Mondays in a local barn. Members brought potluck meals they kept warm under tea towels. Or so I imagine. I never went but was intrigued by the small ads in the weekly paper. All welcome, bring a dish. How did we find out about anything back then? No internet, no cell phones. If I were dropped in the middle of 1990, could I find my way home? The past is a foreign country, someone once said. Lately, so is this moment. During the pandemic, one house on our block had a Trust Dr. Fauci banner on the front porch. Across the street, neighbors planted a Fauci is a Liar lawn sign. My friend Joan says it’s everyone’s first time being a person. Most of us are personing the best we can. We try, try, stumble, try. Contra dancers weave in and out of other bodies, wipe brows with damp bandanas, grant grace for missed cues. Look each other in the eye.

Erin Murphy is the author or editor of sixteen books, most recently Swoon: New and Selected Poems (Grayson Books, 2026).

THE BLAME GAME

by Joel Savishinsky

It is hard to predict where

     the next contagion will erupt,

          or how, or when.

 

Most of us do not even understand

     what is already understood

          about the plagues of the past.

 

Few recall, or ever know, for instance,

     that the “Spanish flu” of 1918 began

          at an American army base in Kansas.

 

But surely, at the next

     outbreak of outrage,

          the cause for the spread of whatever

 

may well be laid at the feet of a Chinese lab,

      an Asian market, or an African village…

          anywhere but here…

 

unless, of course,

     our leaders can blame

          someone like Dr. Fauci.

Joel Savishinsky, an anthropologist and gerontologist, is the author most recently of Our Aching Bones, Our Breaking Hearts: Poems on Aging (The Poetry Box, 2023). His earlier work, The Ends of Time: Life and Work in A Nursing Home, and Breaking the Watch: The Meanings of Retirement in America, both won the Gerontological Society of America’s annual book prize. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his other writings have appeared in Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Passager, and The New York Times. He lives in Seattle, trying to raise hell and five grandchildren.

AT WAR WITH MY(USUAL)SELF OVER MTG

by Alessandra Foster

I hate her.

I’m used to hating her.

I don’t want to call forth

a loving heart that says

Everyone has some good in them.

Everyone deserves another chance.

 

Her behavior has always been disgusting.

Witness - unfortunately I did—her vile

and despicable condemnation of Dr. Fauci 

to his face. Unforgettable. Unforgiveable.

 

She’s finally doing something 

on the side of right

and I should praise her for it?

Thank her better angels—

if she has any—that she is possibly

at the start of becoming a better person?

I don’t buy it. No benefit of the doubt.

She’s had years to show me who she is.

 

I actually laughed with amazement

listening to her at the anti Epstein rally.

My sister said, of course she’s a supporter,

she’s a woman.

 

Please. Isn’t she also a mother?

Does she care with a similar passion

about the schoolchildren traumatized/murdered 

because of policies and people she supports?

 

All my life I’ve said, Nobody’s perfect.

Be grateful for any step a person takes.

Don’t expect them to support all your causes.

Don’t expect a big change all at once.

So why is my hatred for her so strong

that I see selfishness and hypocrisy

in standing up for one gender, one issue,

while condemning everyone/everything else

she has sworn to serve and protect? 

 

With another person I would say

Give credit where credit is due. 

It was courageous to oppose other MAGA’s.

But to me she doesn’t deserve women’s gratitude 

so much as she deserves to be used by them for all

they can get out of her.

After all, sometimes it takes a real bitch

to tell the scumbags where to go.

Alessandra Foster. Lifelong and long-lived reader and writer of poems. Published in Bramble, Literary Veganism, Verse-Virtual.

POSTCARDS FROM MY PLACE IN LINE

by Sandra Fees

Tweeted by Apoorva Mandavilli <@apoorva_nyc> based on the “Find Your Place in the Vaccine Line” app at The New York Times.

Phase 1A

I’m a rationed portion of myself. Loungewear

and sweatpants, no bra. Yesterday I spent four

hours trawling the provider map to get in line

online. No appointments. Is this what a ration

line feels like? Except now we wait on laptops.

It’s not my turn. But it is my boyfriend’s and

my friend’s and my sister’s and there's no place

in line. Just today someone tried to steal a turn.

 

Phase 1B

That’s me, 1B. There isn’t a line—yet.

Clergy to queue up with first responders,

educators, and grocery store workers

who stock shelves and fill my trunk

with groceries. Today, the young man who

emptied the sleet-spritzed cart warned

drive carefully out there. I hope he gets

the vaccine soon. Isn’t it scarier in there?

 

Phase 1C

The CDC matrix is a scramble of phrases

like prevention of morbidity & mortality

and preservation of societal functioning.

They position them on the scales called

equity. Everyone wants to weigh in.

 

Phase 2

Dr. Fauci says by summer. I miss

the ocean. Last year I had to pay

a cancelation fee. Is it okay to wear

my royal blue bikini from last year?

 

Phase 3

This week Moderna launched a booster trial,

like a rocket. I hope the space program boosts

its rockets too, speeds us where we need to go.

 

Sandra Fees is the author of The Temporary Vase of Hands (Finishing Line Press, 2017) and served a term as Berks County, Pennsylvania, Poet Laureate (2016-2018). Her work has appeared in Sky Island Journal, Poets Reading the News, Chiron Review, and others.