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.
