Cough-In Nail

Light was long, the armchair and I,

Jules, heaped on the sofa.
         The sunlight still.

I shook until my bones reminded me,
        It was too cold.
Blanket.
     Blanket.
            Blanket.

Boiling in the wretch of the sun.

Fever.

…

Days.. Weeks.

       Crawling blood, discarding my precious luminous red, into the bowl of a blue sink,

    endlessly.

again. again. again. again.

Penicillin, for without you, much like a Victorian youth, I would have choked once more, maybe a week longer

and wilted into phantasms, of a cruel repute of disease and ills.




What would I have done in March?