Bob bore (every morning) now for 147 mornings 

I tap on the app to relight the flame, 

scroll down my coddled rows of golden wyau (eggs) 


to monitor which have split and need repair.

At four or five hearts, I attempt new lessons, 

then patch in more cracks as my incorrect guesses 


drain the lives. Today, I’m nearly done with “Health”:

Wyt t’in dost? (Are you, informal, ill?)

Beth sy’n bod arnon ni? (What’s wrong with us?)


Mae gwres arni hi. (She’s got a fever.)

Oes peswch arnoch chi? (Do you, formal, have a cough?)

Nac oes, does dim peswch ar Owen. 


(No, Owen doesn’t have a cough.) 

Dyw iechyd Sioned ddim yn dda iawn. 

(Sioned’s health is not very good.)


I’ve run out of hearts again, so I drop my phone. 

Its blood will re-pool while I go for a run,

have a cawod (shower), practice “Maggie in the Wood,”


wait for hours to pass, open Duolingo again,

look at the news, in English and in Welsh;

coronafeirws (doesn’t need translation).


Golchwch eich dwylo, advises BBC Cymru, 4 awr yn ôl 

(hours ago): (wash your, formal, hands). I’m learning 

a new language to access the same panics 


with different words. Double precautions, double warnings 

across the river. The mutations are soft, nasal, or aspirate: 

brawychus, mrawychus, frawychus. (Scary.) 


I review more innocent sections— 

sport, family, places, work— 

but they don’t seem relevant now. 


Only the blodyn melyn

(yellow flower) that blooms

in the park next to my house.



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