Especial: Diario de la pandemia / dossier / Junio de 2020

Nick Flynn


In every field we are building rooms, seemingly made of air. Where

is everyone? you ask. Tucked

inside, comes the answer, tucked inside. Our voices

echo across the emptiness as everything slowly

unplugs. Sometimes we don’t like the angels God sends,

the preacher said, when we

used to go to church (this one wears a crown, this one is

a thorn). Today I woke up to snow, the flakes so white they nearly

blinded me. The Governor speaks

inside an empty room today at noon, every day at noon.

(washing his hands like Lady Macbeth, washing his hands like a fly) Go

outside, he promises, & you will kill someone you love. “Overflowing”

is a word we hear more & more. Overflowing. Overflowing.

Overflowing. What was here? we ask, passing an empty storefront. Is ____

still alive?, we ask, but then regret it. The low

flowers of spring have just appeared, a chain of purple

pushing up from the dark (anemone, gentian, creeping

charlie) See you

on the other side, little flower. (regret)

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Imagen de portada: Tiempos de pandemia. Fotografía de Byronv2, 2020. CC