The Next Pandemic

The Next Pandemic

It was his youngest daughter 
Who grew sick first. At first 
He denied it, claimed it was only 
A cold, and wouldn’t even enter 
Her bedroom, as if she was only 
Pretending to be sick, which wasn’t 
Unlike her back when the schools 
Were still open, until, livid, his wife 
Accused him of being afraid to 
Catch it (it only killed children), 
When really everyone knew it was 
Just that he couldn’t bear it.
The other children had been sent
To friends who’d already lost theirs,
And who didn’t tell them that
Her older siblings had started to
Cough too. He finally went into 
Her room the night she died 
(the hospitals had stopped taking 
coughing children in for fear that
it would spread through the wards).
She looked at him from the bed 
From which she’d thrashed and tossed
All the sheets away like a dog 
Who knows the man with the stick
Has come in to put her down.
To save them from having to talk,
She asked him to read her 
Her favorite book — Where the Wild 
Things Are — and was dead before
He could finish it. He couldn’t.
He left it open on her tiny chest 
In the coffin, the words she’d loved 
So much glowing in the dark.