Omicron
By Don McLagan
Finally, the Covid claw
at my throat, eases.
Night-shivers pass.
Hacking phlegm crests.
In the morning,
it will be possible
to swallow soup.
I will notice the weather,
respond to some email,
wheeze a few words
on the phone. Rest.
The clutch at my neck
will not regrip.
It is possible
to believe this
though six million dead
no longer are
unimaginable.
Don McLagan is an entrepreneur and poet who lives and writes on Chappaquiddick and in Sarasota, Fla.
Poets with a connection to Martha’s Vineyard are encouraged to submit poems to curator Laura Roosevelt at ldroosevelt@gmail.com.