New Decameron Twenty-Three: Jane Yolen (Patreon)

THREE POEMS TO KEEP YOU SAFE FROM THE VIRUS

Plague Mask

Here comes the doctor

in his raven mask,

to make us giggle,

not to cure us.

The curious surround him,

touch his beak,

while the unseen virus crosses

the bridge of his black nose.

Oh, you who play

with fire are consumed;

with pathogens

are struck down.

Even if you are seventeen,

the bloom on your cheek

will turn from pink

to fever red.

Then look how you will cavort,

like plague dancers of before,

taking the rest of us down

into the long dark.
 

History is a maze, a wind,

a serpent swallowing

its own curve.

Those who study it

Are often prepared.

But we will be lost

in the traffic of know-nots,

darkness swallowing us all.

Bucket List 

That poetic temptation—to eat 

the cold plums in the fridge,

ignore the fence between neighbors,

to cross the shut-down border.

To sleep with someone

I barely know, go outside

shoeless in a snowstorm,

climb a mountain without a tough line.

To do that massive don’t,

to throw my arms around someone

shaking with a virus, believing 

this list will keep me alive.

Instructions for a New Life After the Virus

Attend to the world.

It asks you for little else.

The silver of water

falling down the mountainside,

a morning sun that looks as if

could use some shade,

that pair of spring cardinals,

he in gaudy groom attire,

she in shades of nesting bibs.

Remember the moments outside.

How heavy the earth must have been,

yet most of the flowers rise up 

with heads held high.

The power of a squirrel’s belief

that there is no bird feeder

it cannot conquer. 

Your dog’s unerring nose

for the carcass of a newly

dead skunk.

Be kind to the earth.

Turn it where it needs turning,

raking the heavy branches

away from its center,

spreading what compost it requires,

feeding it by hand, ass you would 

your own children.

Do not turn away from destruction,

with a shrug, but put out a hand,

make a speech, sing a song, 

write a poem.

All 3 ©2020 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

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"Wow," Maya says. "Those are so powerful."

"She's always great," he agrees. "I wish they really would keep people safe!"

"I've been reading her since I was tiny," Maya says. "Her picture books. And then the dragon books, and Briar Rose and the Books of Great Alta. I love those."

"It would make quite a quest to read all of Jane Yolen," he says. "Well, maybe if we're here long enough! But now let's go upstairs and read something with some breakfast." He pops one of the coffee beans into his mouth. "Want one?"

Mays screws up her face as she shakes her head. Then go upstairs. The cat, who has spent the night curled against Maya's back, following behind as if he just happens to be heading in the same direction.

"Has that cat changed colour?" he asks, as the cat passes through a patch of sunlight. There seems to be a rainbow sheen underlying the brindling on his fur.

"Maybe that chamelion meat wasn't a good idea," Maya says. "Perhaps it's just as well we didn't eat it ourselves."

He is sorting through the stack. "Effie Seiberg? The Thirty Seven Faces of Tokh-Bashan? That sounds like it might have breakfast."

Maya unwraps a cookie and eats it in one bite. "All right," she says. She sits down in her chair, and he sits in his, this feels normal now, established, familiar, as if they have always lived in the library and eaten food stolen from books, as if this, their third day, is part of an established routine.

And they read.