Something about being sick

with a fever
stirs my soul.
I can feel it fluttering
against my breastbone,
heating up my temples
like idols, furnaces, of gold,
making every part of me
from my hair to my eyes
sensitive
as though stirred up beyond
endurance.
My soul swoons when my body has fever
I can feel its wings tickling me as it
simultaneously
prepares for flight
and collapses
in a burdened heap.
— Annette Marie Smith