Incubation

The clock says three. The damp is settling in,

a heavy salt that coats the cotton case.

The fever left a smell like aspirin

and something thick I can't quite place.

I took a spoon of honey for the burn,

but it went down like glass against the bone.

My body is a house I have to learn

to live in when I’m finally alone.

The nightstand holds a pile of sodden gray,

the paper skins I’ve discarded in the dark.

I’m waiting for the light to find a way

to leave a cleaner mark.