I communed last night with one of the killer viruses
as I was about to open a bottle of Beaujolais.
The wine sat next to the apple cider vinegar bottle
with the clouded mother on the bottom,
the two of them behind the crockpot on my kitchen counter.
Limited to telepathy because of decibel incompatibility
I was unable to record the conversation, but I took notes.
After a perfunctory exchange of greetings, I asked if it was alone.
Wouldn’t you like to know, came the answer in my head in my voice,
and I said yes, and it said its answer had been rhetorical,
and, realizing now I was dealing with no simple germ, I asked if it could kill me all by itself, and it laughed, a slow, deliberate, condescending laugh, and, suddenly enraged, I lifted the spray bottle of 91% isopropyl alcohol I carry everywhere and waved it across the counter, and my adversary revealed its name and rank as Major Tom and said how do you know my legion isn’t positioned in camps all over your apartment awaiting my signal to attack, and, knowing this was no rhetorical question, I said I’ve been taking 1200 milligrams of liposomal vitamin C twice a day, and Major Tom said oh, and ended the communication.
And I opened the Beaujolais and poured a ceremonial glass, and it was good.