Coming Down

The sweat came first, then the cold,

and I knew the fever was breaking.

My body went from burning to freezing,

the sheets beneath me soaked through,

the pillowcase damp with what poured out

when the heat finally released me.

Goosebumps rose on my arms like tiny

rebellions, like my skin was confused

about what temperature it was supposed to be.

And then the room came back. The corners

came back. The window came back.

The sick clarity of things being real again,

the thoughts moving like thoughts instead

of like fever dreams, like things I could

almost grasp but not quite, like I was

reaching through water. Now the water

was gone. Now I could think. Now

I could feel the weight of three days

on my body, the weakness, the way

my muscles had forgotten what they were for.

The fever had kept me from knowing

how sick I was. Now that it was gone,

now that I could think, I knew exactly

how bad it had been. The clarity was worse.

The understanding that I could have been

so much sicker, that the fever was keeping me

from the full knowledge of what my body

had been doing to itself. And now

I had to live with knowing that.