by Amy Pence

Time deforms, both endless and too fast.
My daughter, hours from me, arrives by car.

Hours to drive, my daughter departs by car.
Red traces the map, a field fraught with poppies.

Contact tracing shoots maps with red like poppies.
Another week like a month, though months fly.

Weak in the mouth, months fray now and fly.
Invincibles ignore contagion, unmask.

Invincibility becomes contagious, a mask.
Without roots to ground us, time comes apart.

Without time to hold us, we space apart.
Goodbyes arrive too quickly, could be our last.

Goodbyes alarm me, who might be last?
Time deforms: both endless and too fast.

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Amy Pence authored two poetry collections, the hybrid book [It] Incandescent, and two chapbooks, including 2019’s Your Posthumous Dress: Remnants from the Alexander McQueen Collection (dancing girl press). Poems and fiction have appeared in Denver Quarterly, The Oxford American, Juked, and WSQ. A full-time tutor in Atlanta, she teaches poetry-writing at Emory University and in other workshop settings. Links to other work: www.amypence.com