This isn't about the coronavirus. 

In the same way that making dinner isn't about the coronavirus. 

In the same way that running for miles on the treadmill isn't about the coronavirus.

In the same way my hair falling out isn't about the coronavirus. 

In the same way my daughter playing a constant game of doctor isn't about the coronavirus. 

In the same way my husband and I waking up at 3am and swilling gin to go to sleep isn't about the coronavirus.

No this poem isn't about the coronavirus. 

How can it be when it seems there is no realm the virus hasn't reached. 

It isn't about the coronavirus because...

because everything, everything, everything now has become about the virus. 

Because the world has stopped being about anything else. 

My infection isn't a physical manifestation but I'm infected nonetheless. 

My thoughts and temper and being and heart and vagina and hair and deeds and morality and motivation and intellect and tone of voice and mood and attitude and persona

has all become consumed by the parasite. 

I host a virus I've never had.