photo courtesy of webshots
I told them I have a fever.
I sweat as my water rises.
Salt, seashells, brine, a viral capacity for travel,
erode their way to your treeless yard,
knock down your door and come in.
I told them.
I have a fever.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Draft 1
October 15, 2007
I Told Them I Have a Fever
I told them I have a fever.
But the Doctor says I don’t.
My lands feel heavier than anyone’s last wishes,
head as light as we believe childhood ought to be—
but I am certainly no child.
I told them I have a fever.
But they say the scientists lie—
it’s part of some political scheme, winning eyes
to my smoggy sky. I am choking on my mucus.
I gag on my wind-worn sigh.
I told them I have a fever.
But the Doctor says I don’t.
My lands feel heavier than anyone’s last wishes,
head as light as we believe childhood ought to be—
but I am certainly no child.
I told them I have a fever.
But they say the scientists lie—
it’s part of some political scheme, winning eyes
to my smoggy sky. I am choking on my mucus.
I gag on my wind-worn sigh.
I told them I have a fever.
I sweat as my water rises.
Salt, seashells, brine, a viral capacity for travel,
erode their way to your treeless yard,
knock down your door and come in.
I told them.
I have a fever.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Draft 1
October 15, 2007
