Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

for Julia

Notice Breath, my yoga teacher says.

It’s the year of Corona and I take her class

in New Jersey from my house across state lines,

and what I notice today is the lovely unspecificity.

Not notice my breath, or hers, just breath itself

moving unhitched, animating each of us.

One friend with the virus describes

a burning like inhaled chemical fumes.

Another, a pressure like a cheetah

chose her ribcage as a place to rest.

So, yes, these days I notice breath

the way you’d notice a bouquet

on your scarred kitchen table, gathered

bursts so bright at first it’s easy to forget

they’ve been clipped from their roots,

their fading not even all that slow.

Mother’s Day, I watched as two teenage girls

sung a hip hop love song to a masked and gloved

woman on her porch. They stayed on the walk

and I on my side of the street,

but when their song ended, the mom, or aunt

or favorite neighbor, crossed the divide,

took those girls in her arms, deciding

the feel of their heat and heartbeats and sweat

was worth daring the beast for once.

Every day, we’re made to weigh it like that,

sucking in our breath, letting it out

against paper or cloth,

noting its warmth as we do.