The windows rattled in trepidation.
A storm was on the verge
of consummation for sure,
but the strength was still unknown.
Outside, the neighbors gathered
tin cans and tolled up the soil
as they stacked stiffened flesh;
one thumping on top of another.
Tiny sneakers, Sunday dresses,
aprons and khaki slacks
now covered in
garbage flies and old flowery pillowcases.
There wasn’t a casserole in the world
that could comfort the grizzly task
of burying those succumbed to the virus.
Beyond the pickets,
past the playgrounds,
fear loomed on the horizon,
blowing in on the wind of all
that was good and holy.
One would think it was already home,
but no, that was just its hounds,
howling the end of times.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.