Before and After

Before the pandemic
I attended community potlucks.
I folded my anxiety into a handkerchief,
something to fiddle with in my pocket,
as I planted the seeds of friendship.

After the pandemic
the potlucks were cancelled.
Some members came out anti-science
and my seeds have all failed to yield
anything more than broken confidence.

Before the pandemic
I made my first ever parent friends.
We met at the park most mornings,
shared meals once a week,
and took turns filling oxygen tanks.

After the pandemic
the housing market got so hot
they left the country to cool down.
Parks and tanks are left empty now
and my lungs are learning to adapt.

Before the pandemic
we had library and market days.
Familiar places, friendly faces,
comforting routine and connection.
A safety net of welcome and belonging.

After the pandemic
we found desks, stalls, and smiles vacant.
I stretch my anxiety around my neck,
a scarf to protect against the chill,
and let my husband do the talking.

Before the pandemic
I didn't have many friends to talk to,
but I called my Granny every day.

After the pandemic
I watched her get sick.
Her number doesn't reach her anymore.

Before the pandemic
panic attacked once or twice a year.

After the pandemic
it has learned to hunt in packs.

Before the pandemic
nausea, dizziness and pain meant
I was coming down with something.

After the pandemic 
they mean that I am awake.

Before the pandemic
my husband and I talked about 
growing old together.

After the pandemic
he wonders if I'll make it through the week.

Before the pandemic
I believed in a future.

After the pandemic.

After the pandemic.

When is After the pandemic?

Before the pandemic
there was no Before or After.

Before the pandemic
I didn't need to wait for an ending to begin.

Before the pandemic
is gone.

And all we have to work with is now.

At least that much hasn't changed.

**Author’s Note**

If you want to check out the visual version of this poem and a lot of other poems that haven’t made it on the blog yet, make sure to check out my Instagram account @amnotpoetry.

Tomorrow

My every day is balanced
on the knife point
of panic.
Tonight I lost my voice,
my words refusing to file
neatly in line,
rushing so quickly
that they caught in my throat,
my breath trampled beneath them.
My husband found me
on the floor
drowning in a scream
so vast that it left me
silent.

I am not okay.

Life is a trap:
just when I think
I’ve got the knack
of shrinking myself
a little bit smaller,
the walls close in
a little bit tighter.
And maybe the daylight
will make things look
a little bit brighter,
a little bit wider,
but I am not ready
to surrender today
to get to tomorrow.

So I guess this is me
tearing up my white flag,
claiming victory
with the words that sought
to suffocate me:
I am not okay.
I am tired.
I am angry.
I am grieving.
I am afraid of tomorrow.

But tomorrow will come.
I think I am ready now.