Quarantine Grays

The dull, gloomy, gray of the sky
Filters in through the clear glass window
And settles in the hollow between my chest
It’s icy shard rough-sands
The million spikes jutting out of the esophagus
That the new virus lovingly dart-fills
Every square mm of the soft lining with
Piercing pain shoots down my throat
As I try to swallow the cold morning air
Like a hardened lump it sticks
Right in front of my voice-box
Refusing to slide down
That’s me making friends with OMICRON
I hear it is milder than its predecessors
It’s not the pain that bothers me
No! Not even going through the same ordeal
To self-quarantine ourselves in separate rooms
It’s when my daughter’s head splits into thousand pieces
And the splinters prick at her head, eyes, and brows
It’s when the virus renders
All the medicines and jabs powerless
And in agony, she cries over the phone
Hopelessly helpless, I lie in the bed
Listening to her silent tears
Right in the next room
It’s then the pain quietly escapes
Through the corner of my eye
Rolling down my cheek
Pausing a salty-hint-bit on the edge of my lips
Before disappearing down the lump in my throat.

January 5, 2022