In the Thick of It

 

Fogged in here this morning:

Our little world invisible 

in the visible. An invasion 

of moisture hangs in the air; 

water vapor needs 

particles of dust to attach itself 

to in order to be seen – 

this year we've been trapped 

in a fog made of the smoke

 from burning redwoods and oaks, 

 Indigenous bodies, 

Black bodies. 

Sea fog forms around tiny crystals of salt

in our tears. Ashes to salt, salt to dust,

dust to fog, fog to air, and here we are: 

we can’t see, we can’t navigate, we can’t 

bury our dead. We stay inside our houses, 

or walk cautiously down our neighborhood streets 

in search of an open grocery store, 

or drive slowly, cautious, afraid we might 

have to speak with another unmasked 

human being. This year of reckoning, we struggle 

in our national miasma. How thick the air, 

how hard it is to breathe inside 

a foundation made of fog.

Deborah A. Miranda