listen

Quarantine 
 
There is a baby crying through the ceiling 
and the sounds of pounding, 
a rhythmic thumping.
 
My hair is in loose tangles 
damp and matted, 
I have spiky spider legs growing on my shins 
black and course 
rubbed from my calf’s by friction.
 
I hear a lawnmower,
I see algae
slimy leaves.  
 
Its October and the babies still crying
but theres footsteps now.
 
3pm and no Cymbalta
am I sick or stupid?
 
I never know what day it is
am I missing something? 
Yes. 
Always. 
 
One hour I feel like a poet 
the next a silhouette.
 
I told my teacher I can’t come to class 
I have therapy
and a job, 
and I write and 
stare, and cry and 
write, and panic 
and work, 
and the babies 
still crying. 

-Liz Larsen