Viral Trials

(during the time of Corona)

Freud wrote, “The unconscious doesn’t know death,
but as the loss of love.” That rings so true.
For it’s a passionately labored breath
that respirates among our forlorn crew.
I rue the close-knit people whom I’ve lost
to this eviscerating quarantine
we’re in. We’ll pay a devastating cost
emotionally, pending a vaccine
that lets the blood flow back into a world
on life support. No heartbeat stirs this street
that looks like an internment shroud unfurled
across a corpus wanting body heat.
My mind’s been transferred to intensive care
for those bereaved, since severed arteries
to downtown haunts are aching for repair.
Strong bonds are ruptured by this heart disease.
And even as societies convulse,
I’m at a loss to feel the slightest pulse.

Frank De Canio was born and bred in New Jersey, and worked in New York for many years. He's been published in Danger, Pleiades, Genie, Write On!, Red Owl, Blue Unicorn, Ship of Fools, and Dissident Voice among others, He loves music from Bach to Amy Winehouse. Shakespeare is his consolation, writing his hobby. As poets, he likes Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg, and Sylvia Plath. He also attends a Café Philo every other week in Lower Manhattan. Read other articles by Frank.