The everyday

By Ronna Magy

Here, another day, another morning,
another hour, another moment.
Mantle clock refusing to turn
even half round the dial.

She is, he is, they are, the country is,
waiting. For TV anchors, doctors, government officials to
discuss, divulge, to declare
in words, phrases, sentences,
in passages clearly anchored to the land,
stone posts rooted in the earth.
Waiting for words that will
free them, shake them loose from the
unending same: same walls, same doors,
same kitchen, same floors,
same tables, same light fixtures,
the same soundless air.

Hovering about, around, above words, the
numbers rise. Eighteen million
cases yesterday, eighteen million, two hundred thousand today.
Numbers of masks, ventilators, numbers of
black plastic bags.
By noon, the numbers
soar from the charts.
Red line crosses blue.
Red climbing upwards
when it’s supposed to
point down.

Air in the house never
seeming to move.
Dust on cup, saucer, spoon,
dust seeping through cracks.
Dusty soup ladle
arched in the sink.

This, one more morning,
afternoon, one more evening,
one more moment in unmoving space.
Each clock tick
echoing the second before.

Born in Detroit, Michigan, writer Ronna Magy calls Los Angeles home. In her poetry, Ronna combines roots in the rustbelt, community organizing, decades of teaching ESL, and a deeply held belief in social justice. Her work has appeared in: American Writers Review, Persimmon Tree, Nasty Women Poets, Sinister Wisdom, In the Questions, Glitterwolf, Southern Review, Musewrite, and Lady Business: A Celebration of Lesbian Poetry.

Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash.