You slept on an uncounted coin.
It pressed a mirror image,
like a fading full moon, into the skin
between two ribs. A shadow
coin you carried into your dream
to the bank where you’ll always be
mistaken for someone you are not.
Waiting in line you shared
whispered gossip about
a bloodless battle that goes
wherever it will.
Church spires stabbed
into a suddenly quiet sky
waiting to catch lightning if it ever came
and their green copper arrows spun
and spun as every ill wind blew in.
All the cloth in the many mansions
on the hill above the open graves
was taken to wrap the dead and the ghosts
could only watch from the dark
windows of a million empty rooms.
There could never be enough
stiff white linen or even rags
or old newsprint
to shroud them all.
You pressed your penny into the palm
of the nearest dead hand
and started closing
all the open,
uncovered eyes.
Published in March 2020: A COVID-19 Anthology (845 Press, March 2020)