Alte Issue #5 PANDEMICONIUM

What We Do Now

by Esther Cohen

In my zoom writing classes

we zoom in on

what we do now and what

we did then.

What we do now is tell each other

what we do now.

And we wonder

when we are back to what was

normal before, what normal will be then.

Holding Onto Hope

by Esther Cohen

If we could only

hug each other and Ahava

could play with her friend Ruby and

we could distribute food

and masks and medicine and volunteer

to listen and to hear and

to get rid of this president

figure out another way while we are home

while we have time another way

to live this amazing life.

by Mitchell Abidor

My life formerly had but two sources of stress: the subway and the mass of humanity that was neither a friend nor a family member. The coronavirus having shut down movie theaters, museums, concert halls, and opera houses, getting on the subway is no longer necessary. For the rest, I find myself living a misanthrope’s dream: except when I shop, I am freed of humankind. Other than my wife, the only humans I see are those in the films I stream daily or on 30 Rock, which I am working through from first episode to last. And when I’m not enjoying my personal cinematheque, where no one blocks my view and films I have programmed begin at times convenient to me, I now, like Mr. Beemis in the greatest of all Twilight Zone episodes, have all the time in the world to read, piles of books waiting patiently for their turn to come. 

by Marissa Piesman

On March 16th, I spent the whole day trying to get myself out of the house, to no avail. What was going on? I am self-diagnosed as casaphobic, fearful of staying home. I run around Manhattan with reckless abandon. 

By March 17th I was displaying classic Covid19 symptoms. The cough is unique. It makes you sound like you are starring in a monster movie. In mid-March, symptoms were still rare, so I was an anomaly; where did this come from? Well, during the previous week I had eight rides on the subway, an eye exam in Brooklyn Heights, lunches with six different people, a drink with a neighbor, and saw two films and worked out in my co-op’s gym seven times. And went to a wedding with 139 people.

My husband and daughter remained asymptomatic during our 14-day quarantine. When I was released at the end of the month, life was so different. It was as if I had moved to a small town. The neighborhood was my universe. Sitting six feet away from a friend on a park bench was an exciting social encounter. Walking up to Fort Tryon Park was thrilling. The calla lilies were in bloom again. So were the magnolias and Japanese cherry trees. I have become a small-town girl, wearing leggings and sneakers and tee shirts. And the neighbors always give me a wave and, I presume, a smile behind their masks.

I had a pretty mild case: not a high fever, only a mild breathlessness, just one 24-hour period of horrible coughing. But don’t kid yourself: The residuals can be worrisome. My short-term memory is shot and I remain highly distractible. And don’t let them tell you that it is all due to anxiety. That is a totally bogus bobe mayse. I still have the runs and have not yet found my mailbox key. And my hair is falling out. 

by Jessica Cohen

It was the spring when dry goods held our fascination. 

We bottled gold hand-pumped mucous. Toilet paper 

became currency. The cut of ethyl alcohol sharpened 

elbows. We took our contact in fluid ounces, returned 

to fire escapes, back steps, the opposite side of the 

street. The public square emptied, and the crosswalk 

followed. Masters of airports called the airplanes 

home. The cars stopped moving from their spaces 

along side streets. Certain mornings, a bird might 

appear, its soft tweeting out of place. A day would 

pass, its tally of losses. People died. First, in 

abstraction and then a name we knew. And the 

geography of the world came into focus. There was 

a fat man in charge, or so they said, and he named 

the virus China. But the tankers and the cargo ships 

and the thin layer of hyperclean water under every 

screen called it home. Some of us bought bullets. 

Some of us bought stock, trading on the corpses and 

their deep pockets. But there were many more who 

saw beauty in farsighted blue sea hemming in our 

patchwork boundaries. It was the spring when hope 

was a shell game. And there were winners even then. 

During the Pandemic 

by Lawrence Bush

I finally figured out how I’m going to reply when the NPR reporter says, “Thank you for taking the time to talk with us.” 

I took Ecstasy and didn’t worry, for once, that someone was going to come to my door while I was naked and delirious. 

I learned how to play the Gershwins’ “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” 

I grew five years older in one month and realized that no medical breakthrough will reverse that. 

I pretended to believe in God, and that God was forcing us to step back and find a different way to live on this Earth. 

The Day of the Plague III 

by Rachel Berghash

It was the day I walked 

into my curtained room 

and fancied it the Holy of Holies. 

It was a day of spring, 

a day of tending 

my ailing plant. 

It was the day I buried myself 

in dusty books, 

dreaming of rooms without walls. 

A day I felt faint-hearted 

under the spell of pouring rain. 

Will the rain wash away 

the desert in me? 

Beckon the breath? 

Will the rain save us from famine, 

and as the prophet said 

bring us plenty? 

Inside is the New Outside

by Gary Schoichet

Inside is the new outside. Outside is an infrequent treat. 

Inside my head thoughts and feelings mix with 30-minute activities. 

I try to deaden feelings because comprehending 50,000 dead is impossible. How to understand what we are coming to is impossible.

The virus attacks by class and race because our system says “take them.” When you are at risk without the virus, with the virus you are in deep shit. Cull the poor, the black and brown, the old, and throw in the sick of all classes.

This too runs inside my head: Nothing will be the same.

You Would Have Enjoyed 

by Jessica de Koninck

even this

stuck inside day after day

the washing of hands

the wearing of masks

you would have spent time

drawing designs for simple

ventilation systems

it’s not only grandchildren

that you missed

and the weddings

the births of grand nieces and nephews

graduations, birthday parties

the house at the shore

the trip to Japan

but all the funerals

of friends, aunts, uncles

the hurricanes and conflagrations

the war after war

you would have wanted

to know 

you would have wanted

to be here 

View from the Sixth Floor

by Zelda Gamson

When I left the Vineyard, I said I wanted to look out my front door and see sidewalk. So much easier than a long, unpaved driveway. Now I suit up before going outdoors, a production involving mask and gloves. 

Be careful what you wish for.

It’s a pretty day but I decide to stay on my balcony
watching the world go by. I am looking down on 

Beacon Street from the sixth floor in Brookline, 

early on Sunday afternoon. The C-line is keeping pretty much to its schedule — with two or three riders each trip. The usual runners are out. Some wear masks, some don’t. The older people look scraggly, their hair unkempt and long, clothes mismatched and wrinkled. We have lost two members of our extended family in Boston, ages 95 and 94, to Covid-19. I wonder whether any of the people down on the street will get it. The odds are high.  

I pray they all survive. “Survive” is not a word I used much six weeks ago. But it defines our lives now, and seeps into our unconscious. Last night I dreamt that our family went out to a restaurant. We were all wearing masks. I said we looked like a gang of bandits. Most of the others, including the servers, were not wearing masks. They made fun of us and I got angry. “Wear masks,” I yelled, “or you will die!” I woke up feeling rotten. 

Spring is here and nature is outdoing herself this year. The resident cardinal is singing his heart out. The daffodils blanket the median alongside the T tracks. Forsythia is beyond its peak Nature doesn’t give a hoot about us humans. But we will survive. One way or another.

Warning to readers: Covid-19 can also be transmitted by fictional characters. Be prudent: wear a surgical mask while reading, and keep your face at least 6 inches from the text. Vigorously wash your hands 20 times after turning each page. Some characters you might want to avoid altogether include Heloise and Abelard, Romeo and Juliet, Molly Bloom, Gregor Samsa, Doctor Benway, and especially the various narrators of As I Lay Dying. 

Mikhail Horowitz 

Posted Sign, No Swimming

by Jessica de Koninck

I saw a pair of swans

as I took a walk along 

the lake. There’s no one

else around. No one 

with whom to share 

this novelty. After eight years

a kind of bird I had not seen

swimming here before.

I like to look for signs.

The pandemic will pass,

the water become clean,

the government will change.

Only a couple of birds,

not new, but new to me.

I’m telling you. That’s good

enough for now.

Black Jew

by Roni Fuller

There’s a new black Jew in my life,

so hallelujah, I say, and amen.

His father’s from Côte d’Ivoire,

so beautiful he takes the breath away.

His mother’s white, a Jew, and I know,

‘cause she’s my daughter,

and so now I get just what I want,

a black grandson who’ll call me Saba.

He’s got a road to travel in this life,

he’s bound to find some trouble,

and I’ll just say a blessing for him now,

so quiet and only in a poem,

that he will be just what he wants,

and grow to find a better world.

Ventriloquism

by Norman Reisman

Inspired by a recent trip to Tokyo and now Social Distancing in New York City, I decided to finally fulfill my dream and become a full time ventriloquist. Here’s my act, so far:

I walk onto an empty stage carrying a violin case, and sit down on a stool. I’m wearing a mask. I open the case and 

remove my dummy who is dressed exactly like me also 

wearing a mask. I introduce him. He says hello to the 

audience. Then I’d ask him to join me in a song. Still masked, we alternate:

Me: I hear music and there’s no one there

Dummy: I smell blossoms…..etc.

Then I lift my mask and drink a large glass of water. 

There’s dead silence until I finally sing:

You’re not sick you’re just in love.