Ibis are looking cleaner, snowier

when I go on my designated walks.

Less plump, more gloss (like they’ve bathed 
in the very best hair conditioner.)

I don’t remember the last time

I showered. But I smell like exercise 
and exercise is acceptable and jigsaws

are legal and groceries are constitutional.

If I get my groceries delivered, who else 
do I put at risk? I join a mutual aid group,

cook food in bulk in my home, ladle serves

into name-labeled containers
and it smells like the preface to a potluck

in the park. (Bring a plate, bring a friend.)

I haven’t hugged my friends 
in months. I’ve attended too many

Zoom funerals. (Don’t forget, turn video off

when you cry.) I want that damp smell 
of early morning air, overturned soil,

brine of tears. I haven’t been misgendered

in months. The jolt of a pause before 
a missing pronoun gasps me back

to the present like an echo.

I think I’ve been dis-
-associating. I think the glare around me

is too bright, as the person

with the dog tells us we’re both 
‘good girls’. (I think I’m very tired.)

I just want that fabric softener smell

of home. I just want to go home.