Have we done enough.
To stop. To slow.
This is our pivotal point in history,
Generations to come, will ask
Why didn’t you just,
Stay. The. Fuck. Home?

He doesn’t represent us.
Doesn’t hear us,
Our voices not penetrating stone.
Walls. Or closed minds.
He goes to watch the fucking football,
2 metres squared – my arse.

He reads someone elses lines, no one signs – the first address.
Lacks understanding
Our economy, decreases
His value – as a leader – depreciates
The pandemic, increases.
Flat —
No curve / just angles.
His angle – too focused on dollars.

Epidemic. Pandemic.
The epicentre, health.

I see the fear in every doctor around me,
The alarms surround me.
Alarming me most,
An anxious collective of, Genii.
Beds filling,
Tests dwindling.
They don’t see us.

There may not be blood on our doors.
There will be mucus on our floors
The angel of death,
Coughing and spluttering – on past
Passing over us.
Plagued by a history, not surpassed
Told remotely, seats deserted
Elijah’s glass not the only one to be left,

Will this blood be blotted out of our history.
Like many worrying choices,
Our government has made in the past.


22 March 2020

Article by Author/s
Rebecca Solomons
Rebecca Solomons is a Program Manager and Digital Strategist at Shalom, a NFP centered around Jewish culture in Sydney. In another life, she was a fashion designer. She is a creative soul and dabbles in poetry to counsel her heart. She lives in Sydney with her husband Daniel, daughter Selah and new baby.

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