Beaver Fever
It starts
with a text from a friend,
one that
makes me instantly regret my last two refills from the water fountain,
the enemy
snaking through the walls of the house,
the plate
of food in front of me is now suspect,
the glass
of water next to it, poison with a lemon wedge.
News-releases
and instant panic—
some say
it’s coal mining waste,
others, the
brain eating amoeba—
washing
one’s hands after going to the bathroom is now a pyrrhic victory.
The next
day,
panic at
the Costco,
the specter
of giardia—
I’m
reminded of an AP newswire story:
hurricane
in Haiti ,
“aid trucks
mobbed,”
“food
riots,”
the subtle
coding of racism in objective reporting—
The pallets
of water are right in the front of the store,
a woman
repeating, “I need more bottles for my cats!”
my own
adrenalin rush because they opened early,
disgust at
the man filling up the entire back of his Range Rover,
shame,
because I’m doing pretty much the same thing.
The
quickened steps, glassy eyes of casual terror—
the fragile
membrane of civilization, so easily torn.
Welcome to
the new normal.
--Matthew
Usssia
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