 Sickbed by Ute Carson SHOTS Magazine, Edition 3, 2009, UK The night is whisper quiet As my fever rages, sweat soaking into the crisp sheets, Fear dully throttling my throat As my breathing labors. I toss and turn with impatience at my helplessness. When I am healthy I lick my old wounds, Parade insults like battle trophies And retreat to past injuries as a justification for my ill-temper. But during illness I regress to the comforts of childhood Where on bygone shores Waves lapped over my squealing body And my skin laughed with delight. Morning comes with the racket of birds And as I finally doze off I suddenly savor the sweet taste of grandma's grated apples And watch steam rise from my mother's potato dumplings With hungry anticipation.
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