Cherry Fever

The spoon, metal-cold, holding that red,

syrup-thick, cloying, like something half-dead

and sickly sweet, before the burn set in.

Five years old, bundled, feverish within.

It coated the tongue, a candy lie,

promising ease, beneath a worried eye.

That artificial cherry, a bitter stain,

dragging me back through childhood's pain.

To the couch by the window, the faded quilt,

the heavy breath, the fear I felt.

Just a spoonful now, and the same old dread

returns to the mouth, inside the head.