Wilda Morris

What I Want

I want to lean in and take a good look
at the toddler in the stroller and the baby
in the carriage, whose parents walk
by my house each day, new neighbors.
I want to invite them over, but we are back
to level two restrictions. No good
mother or father would want me
putting my masked face close
to their little one’s unmasked mouth,
nose, and eyes. And how could I
communicate with my smile covered
in cotton? Even more, I want
to take my own great-grandchildren
in my arms, kiss them on the cheek
and tell them stories before they think
they are too grown up for hugs,
before these long months of separation
make my offspring strangers.

Pandemic Baby

my mother was the baby
who almost died
of the Spanish flu

the toddler who lay
in bed like a squash
in the garden

 or a carrot in the vegetable bin
showing no sign of life
fever turning her face tomato-red

heavy breathing          occasional whimpers
the need to be changed and fed
now and then     though she ate little

the little one whose teen-aged brother
tried day after day
to elicit a smile from her baby face

the brother who had loved how she giggled
when he made faces    smiled
when he sang              this brother could not bear

to see her nestled day after day in the blankets
like a radish among lettuce leaves,
expressionless     unmoving

until one day
this brother came
from the bedroom crying

to report the news       the good news
that after all these weeks
when the baby was too weak to sit or stand

weeks when she slumped on the bed
like a potato or pillow
the baby finally smiled again

this baby         my mother    
lived a long, productive life but thankfully
not quite long enough to be isolated by the next pandemic