Six feet.
Graves.
Fathoms.
That magical height I aspired to,
But never came close to achieving.
It just wasn’t in the genes.
Six feet,
Our imposed social distance.
No hugging,
No coming close.
Gifts exchanged at a distance.
We are all wearing masks,
Afraid to share the same air.
This loss of touch is unsettling to me.
As if, it, too, is not in my genes.
Six feet.
I look at this photograph of men digging their friend’s grave.
The intimacy of it.
The sharing of close space.
The smell of sweat and
Men wiping their brows.
Tasting the earth.
The stories you know they are telling.
Will we ever see intimacy such as this again?