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  • Writer's pictureangietonucci

Even in the Reaper's Clammy Clutches, I Write

only hot things today please, warm

things only, everywhere is cold, please

can I return to my queen-sized bed full

of toasty cats, I would like some tea, to feel

the steaming teafall trickle past my tongue, through

the top sphincter, feel it all the way down millimeter

by millimeter until it pushes the chill out through

my skin, my mouth, the tops of my feet in those

not unpleasant convulsive shivers, a tiny moan

escaping through chapped lips

by the second day I am sure I’m dying, stay back

everyone, there’s no hope for me, but you can still

save yourselves, what if it’s ebola, when was

the last case of scarlet fever, I ask the internet,

could it be lyme disease, what are the symptoms

of bubonic plague, and then I’m lost in a google vortex

of images equal parts terrifying and alluring, I can’t

look away, but they do make me feel better about my

flu-like symptoms which currently do not include

necrosis of the limbs and appendages

on the morning of day three, tissues litter the floor

around the bed, I have forgotten what it was like to

breathe freely through unrestricted nostrils, and I

don’t remember going to bed last night, did I feed the

dogs, did I feed the kids, what can I wear today

that will allow me to go comfortably without a bra, and

all these thoughts before I even lift the comforter, which,

according to my bladder, I must do quite soon, but it’s just

so damn cold and cruel out there in the world beyond

these blankets, and could I request a brief coma please

only soft things today, smooth

things only, my throat is sore from nights of

open-mouth-breathing, thick tomato soup, a few

crackers are okay so long as they have ample time to soak

it all in, more tea with peppermint and coconut oil, some

mashed potatoes and microwaved applesauce, an enormous

bowl of oatmeal and a good long book already beautifully

tattered, melancholy but with a hopeful ending, the sails

to whisk me away across cherry Nyquil waves into oblivion,

it’s just a cold, after all, tomorrow is already looking brighter

Copyright ©2017 by Angie Tonucci. All rights reserved.

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