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PANDEMIC by Sharon Lee Snow

Cut the paper. Cut
the sections, the days
lose them one
by one, until no
letters remain. Cut
the neighbors, watch
them blurred behind
the glass. Walk
the loneliness
of a city emptied, a
modern Pompeii. Leave
your footprint in
ash. Your hand
upraised—you look
surprised.
Song burned
on lips, trapped
in the slow stuttered
breath behind
your mask.

A Pushcart nominee, Sharon Lee Snow (she/her), lives in Tampa, Florida where she works in university administration and teaches Composition. Her award-winning short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry can be found in Glassworks, The Concrete Desert Review, South 85, Gulf Stream, and other journals. 

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