Virus comes in ire, in mayhem green
voluptuousness. “Enfermedad verde;”
the squirm worm of our blood, sputum and spleen
turns from cyst’s mauve mist to muck’s facetiae
sheen. All winter long we were surrounded
by others and their intellects — vast, cool
and unsympathetic — until their blood
turned deep stank, septic. Irony is cruel
that way, like Ruth’s “where you go, I will go;”
except it’s viral chaos that dogs you.
Enfermedad verde. — Fatigue and dry
coughs don’t inspire bliss; focus is, I know,
hard with fevers. But bliss will see us through.
Bliss keeps urging: “Don’t die — try, lover, try.”
In the film, Fried Green Tomatoes (1991), Idgie declares her love for Ruth by reciting the passage from the Book of Ruth: “Whither thou goest, I will go. Where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people.” Facetiae is an old Victorian term meaning pornography. La enfermedad verde translates (I’m told) as the Green disease.