The Poetry Marathon

when our maps became obsolete
when sudden mountains rose
and highways exploded
and dreams disintegrated
we became people living
on a threshold
beyond which we cannot imagine
except that one day this will be history
that some laughing people
bearing our genetic traces
will never think about
unless it’s on a test
they will never remember.

Sweet smoke from the burner, handcrafted incense high.

Roses tumble in the air you are rising through,
and saints and lost things: keys earrings brilliant ideas

close your eyes rearrange your senses follow smoke

until her name appears spelled in stars or honey

or hummed by passing weeds or singing
from a new tattoo on your palm.

I feel like I’ll be stumbling about a bit figuring this out as well as trying to write poetry. This is my first time participating. A bit excited. A bit apprehensive.
I’m old in Indiana, on Day 109 of #stayinghome. I write, stitch things, make masks, wonder what the world will be like after we leave this portal we’re in.