How invisible, how meteoric—
nights I wake propped up on pillows
like Emily Dickinson, coughing
delicate into the handkerchief as I
lay dying, watching the curtains in all
their immortal cotton billow whenever
the heat comes on. How senseless, how
euphoric—the stars in the dark were of
my mind’s making, weathering the black
with the constant spark of fever, the dark
punctuated with my foamy breath. How I
am all fish, all water, all crest and bubble.
How extraordinary, how oceanic, to drown
beneath the weight of one’s sodden lungs.
