This week when I was sick as a dog, I wrote a poem about…being sick as a dog.  Call it my healing arts.  By the time the poem was done with me and releasing me from its grip, the cold was also moving on.   What remains is the poem.

Ode to a Cold

Cold of the ancients! My head
Is a stone. O sun, the fog is lifting.
Bring me some lightness and

Streams of the healthy rush
To jobs in cities.  My labor is breathing
And easing the drip.  Curtains
Of it slip.

When I talk, no one hears,
And when they talk, I can’t hear.
Opacity! Tea,
More tea.

Steaming water: a bath to
Breathe into.  Muscles give way
To grapefuit and citrus
And eucalyptus.

I bow, bow to clouds,
To shreds of cirrus as naturally
My viscosity gives way
To bliss.

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2 Responses to ODE TO A COLD

  1. Tom D'Evelyn says:

    This is a tour-de-force and happily done in the spirit of good humor. There are many felicities. For a poem about the human body in-extremis, it is provocatively cheerful! Notice the hidden rhymes . . . .

    • jillbpearlman says:

      Thanks, Tom. My inner ear was working at staying oriented. Hanging on for dear life! The syncopations in the poem, with the hidden rhymes, were fun to work out. Like making music without the keyboard.

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