Virus Espinella Obscure Self Quarantine Walk

Omar Flores

VIRUS ESPINELLA

Mark J. Mitchell

Sealed doors won’t keep the plague outside. Your mask is a delusion. Disease waits— you’ll drop it soon. When lungs inflate with air that we all share, it finds a way through mesh. You try to hide— to fool infections. The news brays numbers that mean nothing. Spring sprays sunlight. People wander the shops— they always will. Until the cops stop them. Open your door. Breathe Pray.

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu was recently published by Encircle Publications. A new collection is due out in December from Cherry Grove. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka, and Dante.

OBSCURE SELF

Mark J. Mitchell

Late spring rain. Gray skies in a shared dark wood. You’ll find your unformed self here. Not quite night but never morning now. You know you should look—it’s hidden—that kiss—your mislaid soul. The skies stay masked. You can’t turn to the right

without stepping on a stranger’s fresh tears or hearing a false confession. Just peace— your humble request. Tangled in cold fear you won’t stand still. Blood drips from folded leaves. It pools underfoot. You can’t walk. Your soles get snared, sticky. No whisper of a breeze

disturbs a black pond. A soft, foreign voice sings small words, showing you she’s a mother— not weeping, but some lullaby. Her choice is a hot blade that just misses your cold face—slowly. The wind’s forgotten brother.

Gray rain. Vacant sky. Masks crack underfoot— the burnt remains of family portraits. No animals haunt you—to chase, to dispute your stance. You won’t be herded to your soul. Pray through a fractured night. Don’t fail this test.

Praewthida K

David Clode

QUARANTINE WALK

Mark J. Mitchell

Purple blooms pierce ash gray clouds, refreshing the bay— stone-still—below. Today, outside is foreign, bright color welcome—missed visitor whose name you forgot. Slow tides shift. You see it. Dark hills across water, as still as still as time. Flowers for a bride,

a small gift. Your slow walk down the slope across chalked graffiti is almost done. It’s only allowed for health reasons. You step with stealth as if you’re transgressing some new law. We’re all confined by disease, by strict time. Turn the corner. Pray for sun.