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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