Jennifer Delozier lives in Hampshire County with her husband, Greg, and their organic garden. She is a poet who counts on her fingers to get the right amount of syllables for Haiku. She is a photographer who succumbs to taking photos on her phone instead of her digital camera!
Beneath
Beneath the mask
at the grocery store.
A smile
goes unnoticed.
Beneath the mask.
Not following the One-Way Arrows.
The store is overcrowded.
Is there no security in social distancing?
A 6’ tape measure will not help us now.
What was meant to be 6 is now 4, is now 2.
Breathing heavily beneath the mask.
“I CAN’T BREATHE.”
Beneath the mask
lie smiles, tears, worry and wrong.
Can you see it in our eyes?
No eye contact, people rushing, claustrophobia intact,
breathe in, breathe out
“I CAN’T BREATHE.”
Let your nose run and your ears turn red and floppy
from the stretchy bands that hold the mask
in place.
Beneath the mask – stretching the suffering to include us all.