February flu

Fotografia de Chandan Chaurasia

Month of the least death poetry,

I pity you: a bone of a day

once every four years tossed your way.

You bury it.

A fever coming on, a swoon

and liquid filling up a spoon.

There’s time for only one full moon.

You carry it.

The heart of you is candy hearts,

symmetrical sans blood. Cruel arts,

Pandora’s chocolate box with charts:

You ferry it,

seven by four, across the air

in snowshoes, open it to share

the blizzard of love’s polar bear.

I marry it.

John Poch