by Maryam Shadmehr
by rough soles, dusted
the earth, which breathed as the virus
gnawed at our lungs and our voice drowned in meadowlark songs,
celebrating our quarantine.
A skirt of colors,
stripped down to their core. Family
breakfasts sprang up because buses stopped showing. That year,
on the beach, waves left brilliant
white foam, and the sea,
Maryam Shadmehr is an emerging writer who lives in Emeryville, California with her husband and daughter. Her work has been published in Masque and Spectacle, Cider Press Review, and Overtly Lit and is forthcoming in Ethel Zine. She can be found on https://maryamshadmehr.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter @maryamshadmehr.