Ways of Looking at a Mask


I
Among the dozens in Walmart
the only still thing—
the mouth of the mask.


II
I was of three hearts
for every patient—
a single mask per shift.


III
Masks, sightless and flightless birds,
perch on the table’s edge.


IV
A woman and her wife and their child
are one.
The women and their child and their masks
are one.


V
I reject the ugly of orange on a blue screen,
blustery ego battles, closets
of toilet paper rolling out like carpet under foot.


VI
Do I prefer the muffle of a mask being eased off
or just before?


VII
Fog clouds my glasses
with each exhale, a blinding.


VIII
The mask, even
when the mask is off,
a decipherable imprint
on a nurse’s face.


IX
O three layered masks,
why do you envision
the green threads
of existence fraying?


X
The mask nestles in my lap,
a cat or a third hand.


XI
We can’t see how the virus
moves among us like an exhale,
like humidity, like the deadly refrain:
I can’t breathe.


XII
The lords of cacophony
confuse our masks for smiles.


XIII
Once fear mistook
the mask over my mouth
for a hand.


XIV
The cities siren throughout the night.
Above every house, the masks
wave like flags. We do not surrender
a right to breathe.


XV
During this death-defying act, we
are an audience holding our breath,
hands over our mouths like masks covering screams.