By Marissa Glover
You must pretend
this is the first
mask you’ve ever
worn—act like it
is the first time
you hid yourself
at home, away
from the unseen
thing that might
make you sick,
might kill you,
if too much gets in.
Now more than
ever, dream
of snakes walking
into the house
on legs, of teeth
cracking, collapsing
into your throat,
of flying—slowly
only two feet
above the ground.
Now more
than ever, be
calm when folks
call you coward,
cunt; let them
drink a punch—
this darker red
spreading heat
in their chests now.
More than ever
we’re alone,
together.
Everyone is
uncomfortable,
forced to pretend
this is the first
time no one
can see us,
know how
we really feel.
Marissa Glover teaches and writes in Florida, where she is co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa’s work appears in Rust + Moth, SWWIM Every Day, and Okay Donkey, among other journals. Her debut poetry collection, Let Go of the Hands You Hold, is forthcoming from Mercer University Press in 2021. Follow Marissa on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.
Photo credit: Kristin Schmit via a Creative Commons license.
Brilliant!