ManicWorld Magazine

They say anthrax lives in the permafrost,
Quietly hanging out with
the bodies of reindeer it killed years ago,
Smiling slyly as leaders buried those tainted
beasts,
Maybe somehow knowing the climate would
change,
Melting the permafrost
And releasing its spores.
My grief is the anthrax.
Buried in my frozen feelings
Born from a series of universal things:
The litany of Life’s losses.
Time ticking and taking.
A plethora of endings.
Until legions of lesions march across my body and
soul.
Bacterium bacillus anthracis.

Pile on the pain of the world
pandemic, upheaval,
Ugly words,
Disconnection.
And my anthrax grief simmers and blisters.

What happens when the permafrost thaws?