Jul/Aug 2020  •   Poetry  •   Special Feature


by Dorsía Smith Silva


It's a soundtrack of quarantine:
the slow-burn wails of

"When is lunch going to be ready?"
and "I don't want to study today!"

the frescoed rhythm of the dishwasher
scratching the three-day mustard stains

and stanch sugar crumbs on plates,
barrettes choking in the vacuum,

and the on and off microwave
timer speaking in riddles. There

is no bloom of summer, no scent
of sky, as I trace the memory of

being outside into a circle around
me. There I would sail like fresh

sheets hung out to dry on the
clotheslines, spread like hardwired

coral in water, and stride like
Creeping Charlie across Timothy

grass. I would hope like a sleeveless
child with an amusement park goodie

that everything would last a little
longer, and not become a back

alley where Socrates tells me this
is the present's dialect taking shape.