Incarcerated
As if the wick flickered the candle,
The chair took hold of me,
And the pen wrote itself on paper.
It’s that kind of morning.
Air bruising leaves.
Blue sky flocking clouds.
The floor stares at the soles
Of my shoes, tongue-tied.
Coffee darkens my throat.
I am self-distancing
As the world shuts the door
On a virus that searches for victims.
I am lost in the hour
And the hour ticks inside me.
I am my own clock.
There is no story. I am a blank page,
books grown old with me,
caught in the maze of meaning.
Television and dreams hold my mind
On track number three. Yes,
That’s my train.
It rails in the same direction
While the country jails itself,
Sends everyone on leave.
- © Helga Kidder 2021
Helga Kidder lives in the Tennessee hills. She has an MFA from Vermont College and leads the poetry group for the Chattanooga Writers Guild. Her poems have been published in Artemis, Amethyst Review, Conestoga Zen and others. She has four collections of poetry, "Wild Plums", "Luckier than the Stars", "Blackberry Winter", and "Loving the Dead" which won the Blue Light Press Book Award 2020. Her new collection, "Learning Curve", is slated for print in November.
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