Strep
by Emily Skoler
Sweat, so much like sweet
I think of syrup on pancakes, chocolate chip
cookies, marshmallow fudge.
Camping in the Adirondacks we ate all that
with peanut butter, remember? Have I told you enough times
that you overboil everything? Somewhere between
our first kiss and noticing the fluorescent street light
had injected your lips with the purple of desire
I said I'd never slept beneath
the stars. Rain,
and still a hundred degrees. Steam
off the lake, your shirt
plastered against your skin.
The sky unravels this late winter afternoon,
starlings shredding the air
on their way to the large and leafless elm.
The sheets are damp;
it hurts when I swallow.
Something the size of a small bird,
trapped in my head, hurls
its body against the vague light
behind my eyes. I haven't finished
my book and it's due back. Whether they will elope next chapter
is unclear. Whether I'll wake
one night to find you disappearing down the fire ladder
like the lover in the novel you've plotted out on blue paper.
Does she send postcards? Does the other
track her down -- I forget. I forget
our first kiss.
Put down the spoon;
can you hear me? I hope
you're making that garlic sauce.
I want to be the one
who dies first. But first
I want to be run over by sleep
again. I love the darkness,
the sparrows gibbering until it sounds like
rescue the light. I'll join in
to show I've broken the fever: I don't need
another pillow or blanket or aspirin
or lover. Oh draining sky,
come closer, happiness scares me.