Mantis 19 (Spring 2021)
2020: Protest
Florence Weinberger
Edging into the Next Day
I wear my face like a mask, a blank page
I pray renders me invisible
when their dogs sniff us out at dawn.
A Times article tells me
how to adjust my mask
so my eye glasses won’t
steam up.
I must be more guarded. I spoke
at the soup line; got clobbered.
The bastard broke
my glasses. I see heartwise.
Though my walls tighten in
like a horror film, at least I can
circle my familiar trees, my
unbounded streets.
The electrified fence is a fantasy wall
to the visible beyond, a boundary my feet know well; stay away.
I obey, stay in, get bread,
fresh produce on my doorstep.
The calendar’s dead,
but the neighbors are kind.
Ivan’s dead. I waited. No one around, so I took
the crumb of bread he was about to eat. His fist
was still warm.
Though my newspaper hollows,
columns of dead fill the pages,
leaving scant room for science
and patience.
We’re sleeping so close, we dream
each other’s dreams; a plan is seeping through
the fraying seams.
Zoom, Zoom, rhymes with
doom but I saw my kids and
Baxter. That old dog knows
something I don’t.
Trying to Flutter Leaves in China
Deemed too antique to be abroad where breezes spread presumptive death, I have been indoors by decree. I’d rather die in my time, my body worn to the end of its destiny.
Friends bring me sustenance. I swallow godliness. Yet the walls
shudder me awake to the ruined familiar. I must open the doors to try.
Put on my shoes.
I step out disguised, yet recognized. They know my gait, my hat, the bland N95. They nod, the ones that go uncovered, they never blink or smirk.
I stare at them, a third grade teacher shaming with blazing eyes alone, but when I see they are impervious or humorless, I revert to my soul animal, I growl and spew, I stop wearing white.
My cover now is black and shines, my wile to unlock their willfulness: toll the bells of black death, hearts of darkness, robes of judgment, crows divining from the tops of telephone poles.
When I see my stunt has not stung them to contrition, I become less subtle, hiss the word so it skitters in their direction, but still they insist on sanctifying their ignorance.
The earth moves of its own volition. I was told my breath could flutter leaves in China. I am merely seeking to ruffle my neighbors, not the ones who bring me apples. The ones who cry in their sleep.
FLORENCE WEINBERGER is the author of fve published collections of poetry, the most recent Ghost Tattoo (Tebot Bach). Along with fve nominations for a Pushcart Prize and a nomination for Best of the Net, her poetry has appeared in a number of literary magazines, including Spillway, The Comstock Review, Antietam Review, Rockvale Review, Nimrod, Poetry East, Rattle, Baltimore Review, Cultural Weekly, Calyx, Miramar, The River Styx, December, North American Review, The Los Angeles Review, and Shenandoah.