Sometimes I think about why we are put in whatever precarious positions we find ourselves in. Why was I put in the body that I’m in? Why was I able to get a COVID vaccine, while others haven’t? Who is the puppet-master behind the scenes this time, offering this drug or that salvation; this muse or that job? Maybe everything is an offering, even the tired and unwanted ones. In school yesterday, I was teaching a class who had a student who had COVID. COVID has been a strange offering. I am still wrapping my head around it, and when my thoughts are muddled and conflicted, I turn to poetry. To the sad ring of sound and syntax. The poem above is an offering, just as conflicted as COVID has been.