And all that night carries soundlessly, a satchel of eels.
Fever going down like anemones too full with sweat to float,
Cloak of many blankets wounding you to warmth. It was not,
We both agreed, the time for hospital, its open sea of urgent
Care. Close your eyes and try to sleep. Underwater the music
Of your hair is glossy even now, willowing in currents, away
From our island rancid with the spring.
Not much longer now.
Green length of one hour, all the blood rushing to the places it will
Not be needed anymore. Now no longer now.
Bramble of needles taken out, for good. So many women
Have run their fingers (as I have) through the glossing of
Your hair—a dormant harp made musical By hand.