After Frank Moore’s “Debutantes” 

They’re not coming out—they’re coming into
the ground. Not in bloom, on fire.

Hang in. This virus can’t make you
forever. Don’t linger long, girls. The back
of that tricycle is not steady so close
to the fountain overflowing with heads
of death, shackled feet. A pear tortures inside.

Hang out. These barbs can keep
closed. Sit down and scream. Hold on
to that doggie, he’s all you’ve got now.
Not even your childhood best friend
is going into that garden.

No one, not anyone will follow you through
those blades.

Britt Gambino is a New York based poet. Learn more about her here.