The New Math
My daughter pots plants in the desert.
In the desert, pandemic is elsewhere.
Or that’s the theorem.
If the proof is in percentages,
I tell her to wear gloves, her hands
in the dirt in the desert nursery,
her hands cradling succulents
into the soil. From the north
we send our hearts
and our warnings. In the north
I watch and try not to watch
the death count rising
exponentially. I count on hope,
square my worry with my wellness
I send to the desert where
my daughter nurses chicks and hens
for people who come to shop.
Because her boss grows a quotient
of carrots and beans, his business
becomes essential, and I tell
my essential daughter
to say, softly, with kindness,
Six feet, please. I tell her
six feet is the distance of love.
Also Posted on https://www.pangyrus.com/poetry/the-new-math/