Get Out

by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

 

Once, it was so easy to say welcome. Welcome, a soft, simple word.

Now, with the virus, it’s easier to say get out.

Get out of my sister.

Get out, to cavalcades of license plates rolling in, get out, with more statistics on the rise. Get out tourists, invaders with starched smiles.

Get out to guilt, get out to a dictatorial streak that’s not mine.

Somewhere, the virus laughs. My sister gasps.

Now there’s only a raw wonderland.

I watch a burial through a Zoom screen.

I can’t say get out. I can’t say welcome.

What do I say now?

 

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