I’ve had flu.
The proper one where you can’t function and your skin hurts and everything’s inflamed and all you can do is to stare into the middle distance and wait for it to leave. I haven’t read anything, written anything, made anything for weeks and I’m still off coffee.
I’m trying to float
in this deep iron bath,
raising my pelvis from the cold and
tilting my head into warm water,
ears filled with dead sound.
And it works for a while,
looking up at the shower head,
hanging hoof-like from the ceiling.
There is a rough-maned, zinc-hued horse
pounding the attic floor.
My hands are floating on the surface nudging foam.
Can I feel the inside?
I reach a finger into a blue-oiled bubble.
I see myself in a
solitary water drop on the tap.
I am a small, twisted, one-eyed
I wait for the next
and the next
until I am cold.