By Afaa Michael Weaver
I am a city of bones
deep inside my marrow,
a song in electric chords,
decrescendo to mute, rise
to white noise, half silences
in a blank harmony as all
comes to nothing, my eyes
the central fire of my soul,
yellow, orange, red--gone
in an instant and then back
when I am, for a glimpse,
as precise as a bird's breath,
when I am perfect, undone
by hope when hope will not
listen, the moon wasting
to where I need not worry
that bones turn to ash,
a brittle staccato in dust.
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Monday was quiet except while we had thunderstorms that once again sent the younger cats racing and hiding down the basement. I borrowed three family trip photo albums from my mother on Sunday, so I scanned those and started making PDF versions of them. We took a walk between storms and saw lots of birds and small animals, but I was attacked by mosquitos so next time I'll wear eucalyptus and citronella.
After dinner, we watched Antiques Roadshow, then, courtesy a friend with a VPN, we watched the six episodes of Staged with David Tennant and Michael Sheen, which along with free theater on YouTube is the greatest entertainment joy to come out of the quarantine. I knew their wives played their wives, but was unspoiled for the actor cameos and so glad! From a trip to Idlewild amusement park in 1997:
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