Nancy Davies

Solstice 2020
December, 2020

 

Each death performs

its own dance,

the choreography of  Now

or No, not yet. Wait.

Vaccines descend in heavy

landings, crouched

in cubes of ice. At last.

 

The planets lumber on

specific tracks, tied like

trolley cars. I can’t be lost

when I carry in my purse

my subway card (expired)

and by my side daughters

who knew our street before

the world spun awry.

 

But look: how many

victors disregarding

deplorable losses

raise their V signs

indicating soon will

reappear new leaves

softly humming

wordless songs.

 

By oil or star we hang

upon the balance

of the spheres. Tall trees

throw wide their throats

to sing along, arms adorned

with choirs of nesting birds.

All the city sighs.

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