For Faith and Don–we’re all harbingers of something

I’m a little purple in the nail-beds

a little short of breath

so I tuck back into bed 

so I pull blankets over my head

I’m a little cold and nauseous 

and the paper white lily on the windowsill

still smells like centipedes frying in sugar

making me want to wretch into the toilet bowl

making me wish I’d lost my sense of smell

I’ll call you back once I catch my breath unless

you want to hear me gasping through the phone

but that can’t be good for your blood pressure, so I won’t

I’m a little feverish, the thermometer reads

and how do my lungs sound through your plexiglass shield?

what’s my SpO2 say today,

that my body’s compromised and isn’t that ironic?

how my healthcare-provider-cells failed immunity this time

my body hurts and I’m so tired

a little purple in the nail-beds

a little short of breath

my sense of taste and smell subdued now

cheeks so warm, I’m glowing fever red

and isn’t that just hilarious these days,

falling sick after being around this shit for so long?

so fuck your face masks and fuck your government

fuck your panic and your fucking politics

there is no panacea; sickness is sickness is sickness is


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