The Fever Break

The mountain of tissues has grown by the bed,

a white, crumpled range of the things that I’ve said

between the coughing and the heavy, wet sleep.

The shadows in the corner are starting to creep.

I reach for the water, lukewarm in the glass.

I pray for the hour of the virus to pass.

But when I try swallowing, the feeling is raw,

like dragging a wire through a jagged, cold saw.

On the nightstand, a half-empty can of cheap soup

has a crust of grey salt around the top loop.

I’m shivering under three blankets and a coat,

waiting for the fire to leave my own throat.