I have been here before,

and yet it is a strange repetition:

this not going out;

this hording of food and handwash.

And then there are some familiar foes.

No use insisting on social distancing,

I am already caught betwixt twin sisters:

Vigilance and Anxiety.

 

Spanish Flu? Or Swine Flu?

Please, God, not Ebola?

No, none of the above.

This pandemic provision,

comes naturally to me,

thanks to my family

of origin.

 

Did they follow American Preparationism?

Were they part of the Jesus Army? The JWs?

Did mother wear a head scarf and pinafore?

Did father drive a horse and cart?

No, none of the aforementioned.

We were just an aspiring middle class,

frozen Findus pancakes,

and tinned custard kind of family.

Except, Father came home from work

with whiskey hidden in his coat,

while mother hid in shame,

and horded what she could.

 

Early on in lockdown,

I began to understand

that this new normal

wasn’t personally novel.

Friends sent messages of concern.

I replied: ‘don’t worry about me,

I could write a book on isolation!’

That’s when the penny dropped

ever so quietly upon my threadbare mind.

 

My parents taught me manners;

my forthright handshake would disarm

the potentially concerned.

My carefully ironed hankie,

was surely sufficient evidence

of the safe henhouse I hatched from.

We are taught denial from a young age.

Mother hen clucked at her little chicks:

Don’t tell anyone about us.

Don’t tell anyone about us.

Don’t tell anyone about us.

 

Each day I am thankful I can still

smell my dog’s paws,

my cat’s unsavoury breath.

The margin between life

and death is very fine.

Survivors of trauma

don’t know any place else.