Post-outbreak confessional, January 27th, 2020

“Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?”

As I write this, entire cities in China are in lockdown. People are trapped and unable to reunite with their parents. Schools close. Markets close. Trains stop. Airplanes stored away.

Only things that are open: Hospitals. The constant flow of information between face masks. My mouth.

Mother’s words Strike me like a gong:

“Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?”

Post-outbreak confessional, January 27th, 2020

I don’t know why. I don’t know how she managed to send this email, Or why she needed to feel A connection that couldn’t Last for longer than a “Are you ok” Or “I’m just fine”. I could just show her my face, Or I could hide Until tomorrow, When she stops thinking about me.

“Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?”

I read the news again. Spreads to North America. Thailand. Britain. Australia. Death toll confirmed. Authorities will “try their hardest” to respond. Death toll rises. First death confirmed in Beijing. My home city.

“Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?”

by Blane Zhu

I don’t know What my parents are up to, Where my relatives have traveled. I don’t know if they made Jiaozi. (They usually stuff a coin in one of them for good luck.) I can’t see what they are seeing On their screens, In front of their eyes. I am just an icon, a little red dot. Meanwhile I turn to my calendar, Refill my deadlines & due dates, And hope that from now until February 15th I won’t receive another message that says: But I didn’t. I didn’t call last weekend. Didn’t know what I was up to Besides being who I thought I should be. Didn’t feel. Didn’t read the news. I tucked myself into a cloud Until the arrow Breaking in from the other side Bearing the news Shot me down in list format:

“Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?”

I’m afraid I cannot answer. I don’t know the answer. But I should apologize. I know I should. The average time of my weekly video calls Stands at about 30 minutes. More than enough time to say hello, To say I feel warm because of you, To say I care about you, To say anything... 1. What are you up to in your college pro cess? Why don’t you tell us? Are we not supposed to care about your future? 2. It is SPRING FESTIVAL. Why are you not reaching out to relatives? 3. The coronavirus outbreak here is affect ing everyone, yet we have not heard a single word of concern from you to your relatives. Do they have a place in your heart?

Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?

“Do You Have a Home? Do You Feel Warmth? Do You Know How To Care For Your Family?” fh 33

art | Davis Kurepa-Peers

Lying Crooked on the Bed

by Jess Kamin

Bitterly, lying crooked on the bed I could kill a man by taking his sweet face in my hands and snapping his neck upwards, I could kill a man while he’s on top of me, out of fear and insecurity, Or watch him kiss my neck, wonder when the right time is for me to reach my hand down, fumble with the zipper Now, or maybe now, or maybe…

Lonely on a Saturday, lying still on the floor Exhausting every weekend plan until they’re all faded and bubbling, ripping pathetically from the center outwards. Dream so intensely there is no escape; in fact, never have a dream again, Only sleep and its continuation, so murky pink, so unable to make split second decisions, So worried about the dictionary and all of its contents… Now. Definitely now.

Thinking in systems: the flu shot enters my bloodstream and spoils me rotten; the trash piles up for days and days until all there is left to do is throw it away; lose your earphones, release your earthly possessions, find them in the bed, rinse, repeat; communicate through noise and distraction, distract yourself with rambling thoughts of continuity and fried rice. Now, I tape these fleeting things to the wall, first slowly then all at once. This is all of it.