She sits on the ground,
two, maybe three, waiting
for daddy to carry her
across a lake of black mud
flooding the yard.
Or else it’s now
and she’s sitting on her own
front curb. Her husband
has gone inside. She can’t
remember exactly
what he said.
Virus.
How does the doctor
think you got it?
she’d asked him.
She looks up
from her hands,
crossed over her chest,
back at her house,
then toward the street.
Rocks herself
while she can
between
the before
and the after.