You Can't Talk to Ebola

Always rifle-shaped, the virus

used to ride on scowls.

Came in clusters piled snarling

on roofs and backs of trucks.

Shoulder-butted. Ready-charged.

We've come. Hand over your youth

or yield to our torch.

I'd greet them;

hail one, and they'd all turn,

distracted.

How's your mother?

Did the tablets ease her pain?

Mock their faces—

what frowns!

We've no food, sir.

They'd reach for my gifts and leave,

all those long gray barrels

resting on their knees.

And the virus

adapted. Barreled still, but earless,

piggybacking on smiles.

On children come to plead.

We love them,

we feed them.

And then we're cracked apart.

Our slain youth here, now,

wait for transport, laid out

upon the hearth.

© 2014 Jacqueline Leigh