Previous articleNext article FreeHanging in the AirAndrea BradyAndrea Brady Search for more articles by this author PDFPDF PLUSFull Text Add to favoritesDownload CitationTrack CitationsPermissionsReprints Share onFacebookTwitterLinked InRedditEmailQR Code SectionsMore1 April 2020Being less than an activitywe empty out the life that hangslike code in the air, but for how longdoes it survive there if the air is white and lush,more benevolent to the city than ever, whose leaves are outof a season we are missing. It hangson the window like a recrimination,a rainbow trail, the wolf’s chalky inviteto the last kid hiding in the clock.And like a call; and is filled with callsof the chattering specieswhose voices are carried from house to houseparties and face times, many heard, the more silent.And like nothing but indifferencegrowing warmer in the tangled biome to its humancarriers. We pick our way prudently down the street.The person who passes is like us:a matrix of infection. We turn around at the headof the aisle that has someone in it, and wash our handsand shrink. Our hands are very dry now. Our mean gestures have all changed.When in this poem I say we I mean a nuclear family in Londonwho are lucky. Having outside space.The ball keeps getting kicked over the fence, and there is someonethere to return it.A friend, who is Chinese, has been repeatedly abused in the street.Mean gestures, filthy speech. The street is also the spacewhere our neighbours are clapping. Where we perform distanceto contain the bad humours that may be hiddenin another body. Hidden inside a room that can’t be leftbecause of the news, the violent man, the guard, the border. It is nowvery easy to get sectioned. We consider ourselves indefinitelyseparated from our friends and lovers and nothing will be the sameuntil it is, and the amazonificationof the planet will be complete, and we’ll be releasedfrom our incommensurate lockdown to party and write poemsupon poems about the virus and the discourse of war.And some will still not be able to go out intothe streets still full of the performance of abuse.For now we pick apart the hem looking for silver liningsinside the garment of bad surprises.My kids have been teaching me about black holes, clock time,and dentistry in ancient Egypt.I thought the singularity was a site of infinitely dense matterbut it’s the profound energy that distorts space and time.They’re overjoyed to learn that if they tried to passthrough its horizon they’d be spaghettified,their whole body a stream of plasmaone atom wide. If your being was not then emptyit would be still, watching the universe shiftand quicken before it.Right now I’m writing this standing up because I’m teachingand working and printing and feeding and rememberingand in pain. When you’re sick or in pain it’s hard to rememberwhat it was like not to be, the self that streamedpainlessly through another world is not yourself, the lightstuttering on her face was not your light or your face.How could I have been so stupid not to noticehow easy it has always been for me to move down the street?Right now I am trying to read and not read the accountsof the anaesthetists. I misread the inhalationof toxic gas as toxic glass. I don’t want to think of all the people aloneI tell the kids to write about their experiencesof this big historical singularityand hide its data from them. I could say it’s like the waythe black hole can’t be seen but shifts everything around itbut that’s a comparison in a poem and the kids just laugh.They know that the collapse of everything clearsthe air at least. How cool the sky would always bewithout the scratching of motors. We could lag together,smooth in our suspension.We stay in the yard.In its green and yellow is an imageof the lungs we will be givenif we cross the horizon and abandonthe nuclear family, private property, obedient domains.NotesAndrea Brady’s books of poetry include The Strong Room (2016), Dompteuse (2014), Cut from the Rushes (2013), Mutability: Scripts for Infancy (2012), and Wildfire: A Verse Essay on Obscurity and Illumination (2010). She is a professor of poetry at Queen Mary University of London, where she founded the Centre for Poetry and the Archive of the Now. Previous articleNext article DetailsFiguresReferencesCited by Critical Inquiry Volume 47, Number S2Winter 2021Posts from the PandemicEdited by Hank Scotch Article DOIhttps://doi.org/10.1086/711431 Views: 764 Citations: 1Citations are reported from Crossref © 2021 by The University of Chicago. All rights reserved.PDF download Crossref reports the following articles citing this article:W. J. T. Mitchell Groundhog Day and the Epoché, Critical Inquiry 47, no.S2S2 (Dec 2020): S95–S99.https://doi.org/10.1086/711447