Corona

You want to say to yourself
that it’s a name for a beer,
nothing more than that. You
crack open bottle after bottle,
until you think you can feel
a sensation of being home,
seated around the table
with the Torettos, saying
grace. But you still feel
like something is burning
in your lungs, a fearful heat
like plasma discharged
from a microcosmic sun.
And you can watch movies
all day, you can be so joyful
for a few hours, but this new
meaning won’t un-ascribe
itself, won’t worm its way
out of a word that is now
somehow toxic, rotting.