The Problem (poem)

I originally posted this poem shortly after my mother’s death in 2018. 

Now, in light of last night’s debate, and the claims that we are “turning a corner,” even as we peak, at the highest level of daily COVID-19 cases ever, it seems there are those out there who need reminding, of what it is, to feel loss. 

An ever larger portion of the population has had loved ones, suddenly and without warning, stolen from them. 

I imagine at least some of them must feel insulted, at their suffering being belittled.  The experience of losing someone does not fill one with enthusiasm and optimism and jingoism, as the current administration seems to think.  Instead it empties out ones reserves, it makes every surface tender and raw, and it causes one to ask questions that no one can answer. 

One can only commiserate.  If one is capable of such human emotions. 

I hope, whatever your own politics, you exercise your right to vote, and take care, to protect your health and the health of those dear to you.  And mourn all those, whose health is no longer in question.

 

Unspeakable, the Problem.

Layered like slate.

Soaked in vinegar.

A burning ember,

Caught in my throat.

I wince as thoughts

Swirl ‘round my mind,

Rounding up wagons,

Circling back.

Surrounding, entrapping

My soft inner core.

Warding off all

But the Problem’s embrace.

I woke, unaware of the Problem.

A normal day, my routine chores.

How could I know

My life would change

So instantly? And break

Into a thousand pieces,

Hardly worth the cleaning up.

While once I spoke so clinically,

Precision to a fault,

I find I cannot speak it,

Cannot bear to voice the sounds

That once were language to me.

Language you would play with

Merrily,

Behind your slyest grin.

So I’m calling it “The Problem.”

And as a problem-solver,

An engineer by trade,

I’ve set my vast intelligence

To puzzling this one out.

It stumps me.

I get nowhere.

The Problem is, that yesterday,

You lay there, feigning sleep.

But even at my most insistent nudge,

You would not wake.

Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew

For another poem on coronavirus, written at the beginning of this scare, see Bubble Chart. For more political poems leading up to the election 2020, see Sixty Days.