Groundhog Day

My phone stays longer now

on the kitchen counter

I feed my baby 

raspberries from the garden

juice runs down my fingertip

like fresh blood from a small cut

we joke we live in the country now

it is so quiet

our neighbours have started 

a WhatsApp group trading

rhubarb and books and organise 

virtual sewing circles 

of medical-grade masks

we are cocooned 

in a three-block bubble of brick

and it is so quiet 

we joke we live in the country now

my friend three doors up

bakes enough sourdough for all of us

but my six-year-old cries when 

we are once again able to have visitors 

Instagram bombards me with posts 

about self-care during Covid

and discounts on designer jewellery

there are wisps of news 

about laws affecting our civil liberties

changed when no one is noticing

we have re-arranged the kitchen

cook slow soups 

filled with lentils and silverbeet

my iPhone usage is down

my iPhone tells me

it is so quiet now

the traffic on a Monday

feels like a Sunday  

or a Tuesday or a Saturday

I walk the back streets

check my phone for messages

post photos on Instagram

of small everyday things

cardboard boxes pile up 

in our driveway

relics of food deliveries

some have been made into robots

others have become damp in the rain

does Covid live on cardboard? 

none of us is sure

hand sanitiser is our new vernacular

my six-year-old is being ‘home schooled’

we are all learning Spanish

the kids leave presents for each other 

of brightly painted rocks 

hidden in spots along the creek

I do a Zoomba class three times a week

it’s as though I’ve got a personal trainer

like Khloé Kardashian

each day in the cul-de-sac

the kids have a ‘socially distant bike party’ 

es tan tranquilo ahora

nosotros bromeamos que vivimos en el campo