Blank Knowledge

When we came out of our houses,
we were tender with each other
on the sidewalks and streets,
walking in the sun. We said hello
across the small, polite distance,
or waved. Our kindness
masked our fear, perhaps.
Yet it was kindness.

Already, I have put a distance
between myself and memory,
not wanting to look back
at the blood on our doorposts.
But I remember the paper hearts
on our windows, in all the pastel
colors of construction paper
as well as the bitter red.

Plague did not spare us, despite
our rituals and precautions.

We planted small white flags
on the museum lawn,
a snowdrop meadow for the dead.

Isolation created a small Red Sea
in the geography of family
and then built bridges between us
in the community. Hard to explain.

It’s like the street is full of potholes
and a black crumble, the attempt
to fill them. We keep rushing about
as if nothing ever happened,
spreading the new gravel across
the old roadway.

We keep washing our hands.
We keep washing our hands.

— Kathleen