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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