Text
Johns Hopkins Covid 19 Map
What was your name,
number ninety-nine thousand, two hundred ten?
Was it Akmed or Chunhua,
Mustafa or Mike? Did your friends
call you Anna Maria or George?
Were you mother-blessed “Emma”
or street-baptized Blade?
Were you scared as you died
alone in a hospital hall,
untended among too many to save?
Maybe you got a too-scarce ventilator,
but though hovering, masked faces
checked oxygen levels and monitors,
could you hear the beeping stop?
Did you see some of those faces cry?
Did you slip away in your room
at home, your family afraid to touch,
to kiss, to hold your trembling hand?
Were you first of your family to go?
Were you unnamed on admittance?
Was the street your home?
Did you end up with a toe tag,
boxed in wood, unknown, unmourned?
You, number ninety-nine thousand, two hundred ten,
you’re lost to me here in tallies of countries.
You shed an old story or stopped midway
when you became a number.
Most important, dear human, please,
say that you were loved, were loved
before Corona took your name.