I caught a bug somewhere between Portland and Albuquerque, so I’m feeding it hot tea, aspirin, soup and ice cream.
With the aim of getting a sympathetic response from my husband, I take my temperature often, but it never even hits 98.
I just don’t run fevers, which confuse the doctors when I’ve encountered pneumonia and appendicitis.
They shake their heads.
My symptoms fail to comport with their expectations.
Today’s poem emerged from my bout with the bug.
Fevers avoid me
My body’s perfect pitch: 97 point 4
My honey burns his fevers high:
In the old TV Westerns
Loved the Cartwright boys
One by one
From fever sweats
Lying on soaked sheets
That’s what you get
If you’re a white girl