Immunity

The ladybug that landed
on your nose once
in fourth grade
and sat there for a minute, right at the tip,
is okay. The tic you do
with your nostrils sometimes
(when you flare them when you’re nervous)
is okay. The fact that you skipped the party,
lied to your friends, and drank cup
after cup of tea alone in your bed
is okay. It’s okay
that you never responded to Gregory’s email.
Gregory is taking a shower right now.
You are nowhere near the mind of Gregory.
The evidence against you
is not damning. Even the little white
pills can be forgiven — they knew not
what they were doing.
But you, you know.
You get to watch your hands choose.
The ladybug thanks you for not crushing it;
the way this world gives thanks
is to fly away, into a tree
with thick foliage, out of sight,
where it dies and is born and dies and is born
on a continual loop —
what was the name of that song?
What was the name of that month
where you stopped loving yourself?
Temporarily?
What time is it? Has the boat left?
Yes,
the boat’s left.
The boat’s going on a long, slow
trip up the river.
Then it’s coming back.

ξ

“Immunity” first appeared in Salt Hill Journal.

Mikko Harvey is the author of Unstable Neighbourhood Rabbit (House of Anansi, 2018). His poems appear in places such as Gulf Coast, Iowa Review, Kenyon Review, The Academy of American Poets’ Poem-A-Day, and The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2019. He currently lives in Ithaca, New York, where he works as a writer for an immigration law firm

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