We Recognize

that no matter how much people might want to stay home,
sometimes there are reasons people need to go out


             lag (n. v. adj.)
              1) a disjoint between realities 2) as by
              refusing to recognize the reality of the virus
              some Americans exist 3) in a laggy orientation
              to others' reality, which is that of racism.


Please let us know how many days it has been since     up·ris·ing (n.)
                              1) an act of resistance or rebellion /
                              insurrection, 2) that class
         Could you tell us why            of activities that are necessary
                              to sustain or protect life, 3) resurrection /
                              to rise from the grave
             How much longer


you or someone else last brought       es·sen·tial (adj.)
food into your house?              1) of the utmost importance / indispensable labor, 2)
                       mask / shield / march / movement, 3) air / alveoli /
                       oxygen / critical gas exchange / in the blood


        you needed to go to work?


in this current moment—           can you keep up your current level
during these times—            of "stay at home" behavior?



Please choose all that apply.


            breath / breathe /
            breathed //bullet /
            breathing / will
            breathe

Text for this poem is sourced from various places including a national COVID-19 survey led by Dr. Larry An at the University
of Michigan's Department of Internal Medicine, Michigan Governer Gretchen Whitmer's initial "stay at home" order,
Oppel et al.'s New York Times article "The Fullest Look Yet at the Racial Inequity of Coronavirus," and the Merriam
Webster Online Dictionary and the Oxford English Dictionary online. Gratitude as well to members of the Digital Inequality
Lab for sparking language and conversations around COVID-19 and lag.

ξ

Guanyin's Fellowship

the past shows us what is possible.
              thousand-eyed goddess, you must close your leaking mouth.
we return, we sing your hymn — never again, never again
                  as you bow to its arrangements:
resurrect your spine    for the ordering of bodies, the work still unfinished.

   we hunger to watch you eat
           of the carrion so that our containments may be cleansed
and exclusions forgiven      we will not eat with you

        all of these bodies are yours to succor and we are grateful.
       your appetites have mattered to us because these configurations reek of cruelty
we are not built to swallow.
       your cracking teeth are the stuff of our providence
and it is injustice when you flaunt
   the next rib you will break for us.
      we have never needed your reminder.

we are your faithful and you are silent
   because structures like these persist,
      we are watching and will bring flowers

            we organize ourselves in lines,
      a good fellowship   we do not need your groans to disrupt our lives.

This poem contains text from Forms: Whole, Rhythm, Hierarchy, Network by Caroline Levine.


ξ

Jasmine An comes from the Midwest. Her poetry and non-fiction can be found in Black Warrior Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Nat. Brut, Waxwing and Best New Poets 2020, among others. She is author of two chapbooks of poetry Naming the No-Name Woman (Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize Winner, 2016) and Monkey Was Here (Porkbelly Press, 2020) and Poetry Editor at Agape Editions. Currently, she is pursuing a PhD in English & Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of Michigan.