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Clearly, we forget our minor illnesses. Big ones, big scary ones are their own traumas, but with the little ones we are happy amnesiacs.  No one goes around saying, oh yes, it was exactly this day, March 19th, when I got that cold last year. Nope. See, I forgot when devising the 365 day poem challenge for myself that sometimes people get sick. And sometimes when people work around kids and have preschoolers, it can be a fairly frequent thing.

And, illness and poems don’t go well together for me. I’m no Bronte. While I did come home early from the teens tonight, I cannot bring myself to have a sick day when it comes to this. I am determined to get words on the page. So, here I am, puke bucket at hand, to do this. Today I had some time to do some of this work in my creative writing class, and because I wasn’t feeling well then either, it is about feeling sick.

I also read “A Dialogue Between the Soul and the Body“, by Andrew Marvell, in which he writes, “oh who shall deliver me whole from the bonds of this tyrannic soul?”.  That got me thinking about this feeling I have whenever sick that my symptoms are really the physical manifestations of some spiritual ailment, and that every stomach cramp or feverish chill is really the catharsis of my soul’s upheaval.

So, I’m going to poem fast now, without puking, I think.

Ailing

There are so many ways to ail. These needless fevers wanting me are hands of unwanted fingers around my torso. It is punishment like swallowing handfuls of cold margarine,

that leave hydrogenated films that float before my eyes.

Yes, many, many ways to ail. Did my spirit conjure this sickness? Is it all clear catharsis?  Has this hollow insincerity grown so wearisome, that now it all comes forth in black fountains?

When this purging is done, will I be newly anointed in hope, like a baby? All shiny new soul and glistening intentions? Will I wake early to arouse the day? Buttressed by my more obedient vessel?

Not likely.

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Barf. really. I wanted to give this a more optimistic ending, but that is forced, because the sentiment is correct. First drafts, I’m having to remind myself more and more. Good Wednesday to you, poemies.

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