Sport 17: Spring 1996
Jane Gardner — Flu
The children are sick.
One summons me from sleep
with accusations and pleas. In the dark
kitchen I fumble with fruit juice
and medicine whose height
I read by touch. Light hurts.
The other, a young hero, lies
in silence. This is his ordeal.
He'll be found in the morning, alive,
laconic and hopelessly uncool.
Seen dimly framed
in the doorway, you say
something about damp facecloths.
Go! I snarl in the role of black
and midnight hag, I need you
to have slept through this