When other things feel like fever I remember an odd story from an odd friend, retold best as a broken sonnet.
Fever begins in the glossless recesses of the mind
Where the doorknob sits mocking me—
She swears there this carpet could fill the walls
Of my throat with want for words, nothing as important
As the temperature rising; as a string on a balloon
I climb higher abreast the hopes of melting ice cream and curdled milk.
Tasting, as you well know, of implied putridity I wait placid
For a glass straw to bring me health. And she, for all her wisdom
Has convinced me if I stare hard enough I could fit
Through the key hole of the unlocked-closet-door where light
Streaming through could easily be from the stove-top water
She’s boiling my fever in… that @*!(&
forgetting always that clear possibility that this regret
feels less like Montague and more like Hamlet