This time nude in the sheets isn’t a turn

on. To wake after a long illness. To

rise with no more ache in the lungs, no burn

in the breath, no pain in the bones. The flu

makes its home in here, much how I suspect

Gods do when they take over; possession

being nine-tenths of the law. Prayers to protect

fall all muted, hushed. With windows open,

with bed sheets stripped, scouring a vague plague

stink from us. As they say, “too ill to Tease/

does not Please.” This sick sweat. This rotten egg

fetor. Mumbles in my mouth. My disease

infests the air. Disease? Please, junkie jones,

you say, sucking the manna from my bones.