Pneumonia in Early Winter

Abstract

Each evening, your virus settles youdeeper into the blue sheets, leavingyour wintry hair drenched and matted,your broad chest like a wet canvas,making you cough as consumptivelyas this ill weather. My hands urgethe language of your body, trying to smoothback its fluency as I prop you up, rubyour restless legs and bring you broththat steams my glasses and tremblesagainst the bowl's rim. I'm not afraidthat your hair blotches the pillowor that your foggy eyes view me dimlyand your voice, grown cavernous, calls for mewhen I'm right here. I'm right here.In wheezing sleep, your arms move,agitated as fierce brushstrokes or this flurried winteretching the window in frost-flecked pointillism.Already, outside, frost has killed the gardenand snow is losing the driveway.The trees are impressions in white. In lamplight,by the bed, I read to you through the hoursfrom Van Gogh's letters, father: your boyon fever's edge, shouting through your dreams. Each evening, your virus settles youdeeper into the blue sheets, leavingyour wintry hair drenched and matted,your broad chest like a wet canvas, making you cough as consumptivelyas this ill weather. My hands urgethe language of your body, trying to smoothback its fluency as I prop you up, rub your restless legs and bring you broththat steams my glasses and tremblesagainst the bowl's rim. I'm not afraidthat your hair blotches the pillow or that your foggy eyes view me dimlyand your voice, grown cavernous, calls for mewhen I'm right here. I'm right here.In wheezing sleep, your arms move, agitated as fierce brushstrokes or this flurried winteretching the window in frost-flecked pointillism.Already, outside, frost has killed the gardenand snow is losing the driveway. The trees are impressions in white. In lamplight,by the bed, I read to you through the hoursfrom Van Gogh's letters, father: your boyon fever's edge, shouting through your dreams.