By Lauren Camp
Back then, we each had the privilege of busy regret and before that, a question about flights or where we’d eat dinner, what time. Nothing of virus, only best butter and innumerable unisons.
Desire. Each task was a choice and we strew it with going. What used to happen was us, facing each other, rushing together
—like coats scrunched to a rack. Before that, I remember how short our worry; we’d go out and come back, spiraling, fretting our wants from the multiple grocery stores,
buying oil and chickens, choosing our fermentations. What might stillness mean for the earth after all this time we’ve squalled to tight public spaces, people scraping the climate with tender obsessions?
Now every motion is superfluous. The truth is a droplet we sorrow away from, no longer at the gym or in post office lines. Rail tracks and parking lots. Not endless in our sequence
of acceleration. Now all we master is news from the juniper trees. The days count minutes at home and the furthest point we’re willing to go is to praise a wide strobe of birds.
Not even the neighbor’s. But what people call doldrums are not. Right there, a globe of cactus and the fluttering bees curl up into the knuckle of blossoms to snack.