You give me fever; fever. Tremors, white sheets, and sweat. Red cheeks, swollen gums - alone with the obituaries, a box of kleenex, and a bottle of wine. Lullabies beneath eyelids, forget-me-nots in the sand. Pass on, pass out; up with insomnia and on the road; white lines, yellow lines, stop lights, and sleep; awake and to the mirror (a reflection?); out and

awake in the emergency room. "Do you taste the blood in the back of your throat?" No, No, I don't; syringe meet mouth, mouth meet syringe.

Infected. Infected. Infected.


Symptomatic; up (nausea), down (fatigue), don't leave don't leave; blankets and cold towels, opiates and paper bags. Wish me well, won't you. Won't you? I dream of germs; of disease; clouds full of puss, veins in the sky - thick, hard, and heavy. We're bouncing. You turn yellow (again), I grab your hips and you hiss; "you don't belong!" It's okay, we're only posing -- wait for the f l a s h ;

"You're going to be sorry!"; shouting and spitting. We make a wish and break your bones. (I make a wish to break my own.)

scrambled eggs & Scooby Doo - I realize that my mother only wants to take care of me.