goes down much smoother now
than it did as a kid.
You remember how your mother
always said a Spanish prayer
calling upon the names
of Fathers, Sons, and Ghosts
as you took your shot
obediently, unaware
of what would later haunt you.
Your fever dream delirium
brings news of another overdose
a Jezebel from long ago
whose death was overdue.
In the incubation of your contagion
you've been quarantined for days
lost in an algorithm
like a whore who lies about sailing
to anchor more free drinks.
The infection's moved to inner ears.
You feel it creeping from your throat.
While the hacking rasp is painful
you've enjoyed the lack of speech.
A woman you've never known
delivers soup and festive cookies.
Another whose anatomy
you could draw left-handed
from memory begs to pay a visit.
A third you should have married
thirteen lucky years ago
ends her day with invitation
to her couch, and tree, and more of that soup
but you decline for her sober sake
since the season of giving
doesn't preach of influenza.
It's mercy in old age;
attempted redemption.
Self-imposed solitude
brings in the Yuletide
with your greatest fear.
You think back to that prayer's preamble:
"Holy Father, Good Father..."
its Latin praise trailing off
and wonder if those words would still work.
Your mother never caught your ailment
though that's since
she wasn't afraid
back then.
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