Today I stayed home with a miserable flu,
bundled from neck to knee.
I figured: “While I have the time
I’ll read some poetry.”

I set the Kleenex by my side,
I brewed me up some tea.
I took a drowsy pill to dull
the aches and sniffling,
and surrounded myself with “forgotten lore” –
Tennyson, Poe, Shelley.

With books of lore stacked round my couch,
and one propped on my knee,
I “wandered lonely as a cloud”,
and yearned with Ulysse’
This excuse to abandon my daily chores
seemed especially sweet to me
as for the poor Prisoner of Chillon
I wept in sympathy.

Perusing through The Best Loved Poems,
I dozed through half a day,
innocently drifting, unaware
of what lay in store for me.

When into my languidly idling mind
bolted forth a suppressed memory . . .
like molten hot ash, it burst like a flash –
and burned a hole in me.
I was so surprised, my eyes opened wide
as I flooded with agony.

My cheeks blushed read as I recalled
each scene, greatly detailed –
the way I looked, the risk I took,
the motive it entailed.
My stomach turned. I swooned and swayed
as though I’d been impaled.
My fever rose. My speech was slurred
as attempts at denial failed.