Tags
bliss is our birthright, flu, in sickness and in health, plague, poem, Poetry, rotten egg fetor, sonnet, strange possession
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
made its home in here, much how I suspect
gods would when they take over; possession
being nine-tenths of the law. Prayers to protect
all fall mute, hushed, until windows open,
bed sheets stripped, hot water washes the plague
stink from us. I still love to coax and tease.
Yes. Bliss is our birthright … even when it
does no good. This sick sweat. This rotten egg
fetor. My prayers were simple: just a please
end this. Make me well or make me spirit.
