Alex Gurtis
Off the Grid During the Beginning of the Pandemic
Life was pine forest and lakes.
Our isolation was another name
for a cracking sea wall
holding back the surging tide.
Campers still exchanged
pizza and stories around
a campfire. No cell service meant
no rising death counts. We
didn’t know the president
was tested, nor that the
stock market jumped off the roof
of the exchange, dashing its brains
on the horns of the bull below.
Our only sign of dissonance was falling
asleep to the sound of howitzers
firing live ammunition at the moon.
An elderly man told us
the National Guard was training
for emergency situations
as we shared blackberries that
tasted bitter and stained
our lips. Around the nightly fire,
I watched a bird’s nest bounce
in the wind until the branch
landed inside the Big Dipper.
That same wind picked leaves off
dying trees, releasing them with a kiss.
Their yellow bodies looked like they
were hiking up a mountain to pray.
All was well until one day we woke
up to squirrels tearing our bags,
stealing our food like newscast of
two women punching each
other at a grocery store
while a thin man steals
their carts. That day panic
picked up the picnic table and ran
leaving us short of breath, hungry.
Alex Gurtis is an Orlando, Florida based poet. His work has appeared in Zephyr, StoryTeller Magazine, and the Garfield Lake Review.
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