Plague Poems
Cassandra Traina FDG'3H'II'J?KL:<?M I woke up two hours later than I intended. At noon, I finished a novel set in Africa, which ended with one woman disfiguring another by throwing hot oil on her. On my walk––which I like to take at 4 pm, to spend some time with the setting sun–– I saw a handsome man and a very large and frightening parked van with two men sitting in it. On my way home, I met a WWII vet named Bill Matthews. He asked me never to call him Matt, like his grammar-school classmates always did. I promised I wouldn’t. He said, “have a nice evening, Nancy,” and we parted ways. Later, for dinner, I prepared salmon that made the whole house smell like the Grand Central Market, with its fish stalls positioned just behind the glass entrance. But I didn’t marinate the salmon long enough, and so it wasn’t as flavorful as I’d hoped. Sophia told me I have a problem with everything, so I turned the night into a problem: a trap I often set for myself. 94
