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  • Writer's pictureJenna Corcoran

Written in the time of Covid-19

There is no illness in Utopia

There is no illness in Utopia.

There is no uncertainty in Utopia.

There is no loneliness in Utopia.

There is no violence is Utopia.

There is no hierarchy in Utopia.

There is no hate in Utopia.

There is no suffering in Utopia.

We’ve had enough of all that nonsense.






I’ve forgotten how to breathe.


Wake suddenly to

a hot audible thud

in my chest that shoots straight down.

My stomach in a vice.

Be Patient

Waiting waiting waiting waiting. “Be patient”. Waiting. Wait and see. Watch the news. Switch off. Wait again. Switch. Shift. Wait. Hide in wait. Hide away. Stay away. Wait. Go away. Wait. Come away? Wait. “Be patient”. Come again. It was good to see you.

a walk

I take my chance. Slip on the mud. The commotion of the swollen creek audible over the podcast in my ears, odd, from the time before. Smile at the dogs like always, smile at the owners, that’s new. Little bit of sun and the warmth rises from the water. My face tender. My eyes want to let go of what they keep. They fizz, like they used to when I wandered with my fog through the supermarket. Someone’s picked up the Coles shopping bag that was stranded on the rocks in the middle of the creek. That’s good. Someone cares.

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