Like a high temperature’s nightmare
That repeats itself with every fever,
This moment owns me again:
Flat on my back,
Feet in stirrups,
A johnny pushed up to my waist.
Pain is here, a small machine
Designed to be efficient.
Crouched in the corner
Like a ready Hoover,
It will clean up the mess I’ve made.
Again.
Ruth stands near me,
A volunteer assigned to me:
Strong blue eyes
Looking down into mine,
My mother for this awful fever,
Gently stroking my hand.
The machine is turned loose.
It roars as it sucks out my tiny problem.
I begin to falter,
Close my eyes,
Pant,
Scream.
But Ruth calls my name,
brings me back to myself:
“Hold your breath,
Hold it, hold it,
Blow it out slowly,
Take it in again.”
I grip her hand tighter and tighter,
Like clenching a bullet
Between my teeth.
My world has shrunk
To the size of her eyes.
The machine is curbed.
In the silence of a fever
Finally broken,
She places a cold wet cloth
On my forehead.
Her face is flushed.
I let go of her hand
But not her eyes,
The pain slowly dulling,
Dulling me again.