In the Thick of It

Fogged in here this morning:
Our little world invisible 
in the visible. An invasion 
of moisture hangs in the air; 
water vapor needs 
particles of dust to attach itself 
to in order to be seen – 
this year we've been trapped 
in a fog made of the smoke
 from burning redwoods and oaks, 
 Indigenous bodies, 
Black bodies. 
Sea fog forms around tiny crystals of salt
in our tears. Ashes to salt, salt to dust,
dust to fog, fog to air, and here we are: 
we can’t see, we can’t navigate, we can’t 
bury our dead. We stay inside our houses, 
or walk cautiously down our neighborhood streets 
in search of an open grocery store, 
or drive slowly, cautious, afraid we might 
have to speak with another unmasked 
human being. This year of reckoning, we struggle 
in our national miasma. How thick the air, 
how hard it is to breathe inside 
a foundation made of fog.