They rush in like antibodies,
considered the good folks—
once, wearing badges, blue,
dutifully apprehending
a screaming schizophrenic
pacing the town square,
not aware he is a regular,
annoying but harmless—
six armed officers, one so
very young and pretty,
charming, disarming smile;
no safe distance here.
“Did that man assault you?”
concerned, she approaches
my six-feet-apart walking
partner and me, coming up
so close I can feel the spray
from her cough; viruses
know how to get us
to let down our guard,
how to turn our cells
into slaves, take over
DNA, such an easy task.
She wears no mask,
and I am acutely aware
there are scarier things
than mentally unbalanced
but familiar souls; at least
they’re somewhat predictable,
and you don’t have to wait
five to fourteen days
to know if you were attacked.
Yvette A. Schnoeker-Shorb’s poetry has appeared in About Place Journal, High Desert Journal, Poetry Hotel, Terrain.org, Sonora Review, The Midwest Quarterly, and elsewhere. She holds an interdisciplinary MA from Prescott College and is co-founder of Native West Press. She is particularly fond of spiders. Her chapbook, Shapes That Stay, is forthcoming (Kelsay Books).