—for Demitri Paccasassi, who brought bleach and avocados during the virus
One day any poem with the virus in it will sound dated
Any time I see computer in a poem I stop reading
When I was in college and someone said
I got a virus at the computer lab it sounded sexual
People used to get it on in the stacks in the library
Stifling moans among stacks of silent reference books
Now smile you’re on camera notices are everywhere
My debit card has been compromised lots of times
The bank always asks did you let someone else use it
As if they could talk me out of the paperwork of fraud
Fraud is another word that does not belong in a poem
I don’t belong in a poem
But here I am typing one out clickety-clack
While some people figure out a way to do their work
From a computer with a camera and others rush to the lab
To try to come up with a vaccine which is vacuna
in Spanish and sounds like a cow in a cradle
The virus has taught us so much
Bleach really does expire
If it’s potent enough it can kill weeds and if diluted
It increases the longevity of freshly cut flowers
Marcy Rae Henry is a Latina born and raised in Mexican-America/The Borderlands. She has lived in Spain, India and Nepal and once rode a motorcycle through the Middle East. Her writing has received a Chicago Community Arts Assistance Grant and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship. Ms. M.R. Henry is working on a collection of poems and two novellas. She is an Associate Professor of Humanities and Fine Arts at Harold Washington College Chicago and a digital minimalist with no social media accounts.