Incubation

The air in here is thick as wool,

stale with the steam of a lukewarm bowl.

I tried to swallow the yellow gel,

but it stuck in the dry, narrow well

of my throat. I waited for a hand to arrive,

to strike the center of my back,

but the walls are just plaster and white,

and the fever is starting to crack.

The basket is full of gray, wet knots.

A mountain of paper, soft and decayed,

growing beside the bed where I rot,

scared of the silence I’ve finally made.