After years of masking against the invisible enemy
the cough and fever consume me,
even my voice is gone
forcing me to bed.
It was the teenager,
fearless and determined,
who brought it home
just like a brutish friend
at midnight, fully eclipsed
under cover of purple gypsy music
or hippy long locks wailing
at the blood moon.
I gnash my mind
enrobed in weakened pride
that looks like silent meditation
while I wait in my sweltering sheets
for the rattling congestion
to collide
with morning tea.
I shuffle,
take fever-breaking tablets,
nurse warm liquids
into my raw throat.
In my broken dreams
I drive my first car, grey
on dusty backroads
in Minnesota
frantically looking for my parents
and my dead brother.
There is no forgiveness
for being this kind of human.
