Decameron of Ostrava


Story of a Quarantine
We are inside, we dream.
It's a sweaty, weird world outside,
where the distance between
bodies and faces is growing;
where everyone is suspecious
and goes a meter or two away,
where the news want good wrong
now and cry every day: there is another;
where you don't catch anything, not anymore,
you do not touch nor look at anyone else,
where you don’t know what is hoax or when
to take the case seriously and how,
so you just go ahead instinctively,
while you might find all of that cold.

We also gathered the noodles, soup,
medicine, canned food in our apartment,
and we look forward for a better life together
in this pleasant, lustful prison,
(we cannot do anything else)
and, while the disease rages out there,
we are hiding and making love together,
which is perhaps the only real bond,
when everything is turning back
crazily to a seasonal middle ages:
where borders are closed,
you do not know, what tomorrow brings you
and you are already terrified to get
to the store just for a few minutes,
and the streets, as dead ghosts,
stare at you in masks with their
non-existing, huge stone-eyes,
and the hospital statistics
are hunting for an another
unfortunate patient again -
and what if her, and what if me,
or what if us, and it is too late…

Semi-justified panic, dry prayer,
sour humor, bitter, wild nights,
flat earth, easily-infected throat,
doomsday worry, anger of heaven,
isolation, states of war, emergency,
never-been draconian restrictions,
quick lockdown, paralyzed paranoia,
real tragedies and exaggerated mourning,
but don't touch anything: you can catch it,
as if it were some kind of damned
bastard of a flu and a plague -
just have enough patience,
blood, cells and nerves for
the handwashing and booze...

We are sleeping in a sweet quarantine
with scared, immediate, sudden kisses
to hold the life in each other's mouths,
and although we are not in Florence:
we are telling each some funny stories
between two comforting hugs
and enjoy the jail as long as we can,
because at least it is not a massacre,
a murder, a slaughter or a world war -
and it really looks like it is not eternal
here, away from home, yet finding home,
whenever two knees, hips, ankles, bends,
lips or elbows meet in this silent compulsion,
while our trembling swallow-souls
we are hoping barren spring roses,
and we lie in idleness: we enjoy,
we sniff and it is eveb okay
if sometimes we exchange bacteria
longing, weakly from a fast fever,
because no matter if ten days or thirty:
my queen is the same all the time,
and somehow we can handle that too,
while in the fire of our room, shrugging,
like two Boccaccios: we are just writing
our cheerful and giggling short stories.
March 14, 2020

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