Lately, when I hug my husband
in spite of warnings about infection,
I think of the many others doing the same
throughout the world, focused like me
on the limits of our bodies and time.
As the fire crackles in the woodstove,
and we wrap our arms around each other,
I bury my face in his neck and inhale
not only his particular scent, but also
the whole fragile moment that will never
come again. The seconds stretch out then,
and I sense the distance between
the cells in us, spaces that we can choose
to fill with fear or trust. One of us must
eventually break off the embrace—
there are still dishes to do, calls to make—
but I hold on as long as I can, wondering
if every crisis is simply an invitation,
if the aching earth became so desperate
for love, it made a virus that would
bring us closer even as it keeps us apart.
"Quarantine" is printed here with permission of the author.
The ALL Review is pleased to present our How to Live series, poems chosen to help readers navigate these difficult and rapidly changing times.
