I am horizontal
not as in having my body etched by the movement of sand as I rest after furious waves
nor as in absorbing chlorophyll from newly mown grass as I lie with my book
there is no photosynthesis for me,
no luxury lies in my lying.
I am not covered in clouds or staring at stars.
I am propped and pinioned, padded by pillows, muscles and joints
soothed, softened by silver grey cushions.
You may say this is a strange life, yet I share it with millions.
We are rocky outcrops scattered.
We are your hidden minority.
We are the disappeared, not by war or revolution,
nor by famine or hunger
but by viruses, bugs, bacteria,
by caring and loving,
by throwing ourselves in front of the tanks.
If you want to seek us out, go look in beds, on sofas, on floors, in hospitals, in darkened rooms…
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