Letter to Bowers from the Pandemic’s Underbelly
March 26, 2020
Dear Audrey: Four days ago, when I first attempted to write
to you, I got as far as penciling the date at the top of a blank
page before returning to the fevered oblivion of uncertain
breath. I’ve since been fortunate enough to have avoided
the chaos of a hospital emergency room—having providentially
back-doored my way into an out-of-network respiratory clinic,
where chest x-rays yielded a pneumonia diagnosis & an ensuing
test for the dreaded novel coronavirus came back positive—but not
the nightly bane of alternating chills & sweats & not knowing
what further cause for alarm the next hour would bring, including
but not limited to the question of whether my son, standing outside
at ten o’clock at night in a severe thunderstorm with wind gusts of
fifty-miles-per-hour, would have enough sense to come indoors
before the quarter-sized hail began pelting him… I’ve managed to stay
vertical for a full fifteen minutes while eking out these lines, & now,
as I begin to fade, I’m feeling a strange combination of triumph
& lament: while I’m optimistic about my recovery finally heading
in the desired direction & more than relieved not to be adding
at least one particular undesirable statistic to my repertoire, I also
never imagined I’d live to see the day I’d discover that my beloved
Poetry is not so much an actual element of my own blood, as it is
an exotic other, a separate life form, however precious, I’ve only
known the luxury of cultivating like a juniper bonsai in a relatively
oxygen-rich environment. Poetry, it turns out, is not some elixir
for a richer life to be procured & casually sipped; rather like a sapling,
in all its tender precariousness, it requires our fortitude & right orientation
toward the entire living, breathing world (breathing, to my mind, being
the operative word) in order to survive—an inclination which, for my
foreseeable future, will be predominantly horizontal in nature…
In the meantime, I shall count on the selfsame atmosphere that feeds
the breath of Poetry to keep you healthy & safe, as I remain
your reclined & convalescent friend, Stephanie.
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
For some reason, I’ve been extra preoccupied with ruminations on the meaning of life and mortality lately…
Oh, and please help me wish my son a happy 22nd birthday today!

Matthew, age 6
I am still learning how to be a snail!
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One could argue that all of the “-ologies” are ultimately facets of the same discipline. 🙂
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Argue with a feminist? Ooh-ar Sir! Not I!
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Breathing is indeed the operative word. Such a simple act, and so difficult at times.
Happy birthday, Matthew!
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I won’t be taking those breaths for granted!
❤️
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I’m glad that harrowing exercise is behind you, so long as you keep Poetry before you.
And Happy 22 B’day!!
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Thank you, Ken! 💜
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Beautiful, Stephanie – your words on breath, on poetry, on Matthew.
I am in tears reading this … so glad you came through the COVID challenge
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Oh, Jazz, your engagement with my words is always so validating! These words came through a lens I hope never to be “endowed” with again, and yet I feel a certain gratitude for the truths they spoke.
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