Sick Sounds

Small cough:
the closing of a cutlery drawer.
Fork or knife, forgetting what you wanted.

Daylight’s husk squeezed through drawn curtains,
caught in the room like popcorn
below gum line, impossibly huge 
beneath the searching tongue.

For three days and three nights 
we’ve communicated only in sick sounds.
The sax reed C major when you can’t decide 
if you’re ready to sneeze.
The distinct grunt for each movement,
the body’s lexicon of complaint.

Wish I could tell you that I know 
this feels big in your glands.
Your fluid-swollen inner ear’s feedback loop
making a tsunami of the pillow’s crinkle.

© Jesse Patrick Ferguson