This Virus Does Not Want To Kill You

If it could wish you anything at all, It would be long life. You’re the one who wishes ill To it. Don’t bother. It never dies. It just goes out of date— News no longer new. Till then, It does what information does: surprise, As castles are surprised. It’s not a snake, Despite the name. It isn’t hungry For your blood. It loves You, in its way. You keep it young.

Mark Muro

Bishop’s Attic

her mother kept a clean house before the cats took over now she comes here every day sifting the histories of other people searching the what was finding feelings in teacups and treasure in cardboard boxes the mangled shoe trees and wooden hangers rust-blossomed spoons and bachelor skillets the minimal utensils required to put together a tiny kitchen the old towels washed a thousand times dignity hangs on clean laundry books rippled by warm fingertips waiting to share their dreams battered lampshades tools of lost function plastic decoys, chipped Madonnas and collectable tins retired galoshes and a hapless fedora the suits of dead men donations from out-of-state children those empty pockets and musty smiles and ties stained on sales calls to stores gone under she stops to consider that flowery hippy dippy summer dress but flip flop weather is months away until then it’s just little spikes of hope on a time-frozen day tiny discoveries that make everything new again here it is it costs 50 cents she buttons up the coat she got last week puts the thing in her pocket and goes out into the milky chill home to feed the cats there is no loss only the tumor of memory keeping us connected to what’s gone looking into empty jars for what never goes away

Justine Pechuzal