The last time I visited a library
my seasonal allergies were acting up
and I tried to stifle my coughs
even more than usual.
I didn’t want these strangers —
these people who were like me,
prioritizing books over food
at the start of a pandemic —
to think I was putting them at risk
for the sake of my reading habit.
I mean, I knew they’d understand
if I was. But I couldn’t abide
the idea of staying home for
A WHOLE MONTH
knowing that these kindred spirits
were out there thinking less of me.
And then it wasn’t a month
but two, and then six,
and now thirteen.
And some of those people
won’t ever visit a library again
because they didn’t make it out alive.
This was written as part of National Poetry Writing Month 2021, sparked by the NaPoWriMo prompt for April 4 to write a poem based on a chosen photograph of a liminal space.