by Jennifer Lagier

Swathed in cotton scarf, latex gloves,
only inches of skin remain vulnerable, uncovered.
I prepare for morning walks like an astronaut
about to exit protective capsule,
fragile body ejected into perilous space.

Grocery shopping was once an exercise
in selecting fresh fruit and vegetables,
visiting with cashiers and neighbors.
Now it is the equivalent of the hunger games,
all of us unwilling tributes, trying to survive
newly lethal environment.

I am the invisible woman,
possibly a bank robber, cattle rustler,
or tempting seductress,
expression inscrutable as I venture forth
beneath cloaking mask.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem was inspired by a selfie taken while preparing for a morning walk. I think of my masking as the equivalent of the American Pandemic Burka.


 ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jennifer Lagier has published seventeen books. Her work appears in From Everywhere a Little: A Migration Anthology, Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California, Missing Persons: Reflections on Dementia, Silent Screams: Poetic Journeys Through Addiction & Recovery. Her newest books are Trumped Up Election (Xi Draconis Books) and Dystopia Playlist (CyberWit). Find her on Facebook.