And when this ends we will emerge, shyly
and then all at once, dazed, longhaired as we
loved ones the shadow spared, and weep for those
it gathered in its shroud. A kind of rapture, this
laying on of hands, high cries as we nuzzle,
leaning in
to kiss, and whisper that now things will be
although a time will come when we’ll forget
the curve’s approaching wave, the hiss and sigh
of ventilators, the crowded, makeshift morgues;
a time when we may even miss the old-world
arm’s-length courtesy, small kindnesses left on
the drifting, idle days, and nights when we flung
all the windows to arias in the darkness, our
reaching out, holding each other till this passes.

John O’Donnell, “A kind of rapture.” Irishtimes(dot)com. April 11, 2020. Web. Accessed April 13, 2020