Danielle Zipkin
Image by Daria Shevtsova
Danielle Zipkin (she/her) lives in NYC with her husband and puppy. She has poems published in The Golden Shovel Anthology: New Poems Honoring Gwendolyn Brooks, Jacqueline Suskin’s Expressions of Awe, Everything in Aspic, Sinking City Review, Humana Obscura, VAINE Magazine and elsewhere. Most days, she educates middle schoolers, dances, and haphazardly gardens.
©2021 West Trade Review
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This virus never pushed me towards a purpose.
It only asked that I keep a place to shelter my one body
and funds to keep that place. There, the days ticked
heartbeat mechanical. Mornings continued to tug
at my sheets and fill my mug. I learned to leave
the rest for the scientists. I have since stopped
tracking the tides of this and every other virus.
River stones wear smooth foreheads, and I am
jealous. I disagree with diets until I am faced with
my own closet. There were days without chocolate
and I named them honest. I can’t ignore the morning
daze, the coffee forgotten, reheated, forgotten again,
or the thousand other quiet ways this body is still working.
