“I have a steadfast joy
and a joy that’s lost…” ~ “Riches,” Gabriela Mistral
When you were sick for a long time,
the ceiling tilted like a throat
drunk on the molasses of slow
fevered dreams. Marooned
on an island of sheets, you
were brought water, ice cubes,
bowls of broth, fruit plucked
from the tree and speckled
with night rain. The sun swelled
somewhere, in a different sky.
Yours was the cocoon of frog
songs, old ceremony of rice
grains poured into shallow dishes
to divine the blood’s chemical
repercussions. When finally
they led you into the steam
of a bath, you broke through
the surface: sacrificial lattice
of eucalyptus leaves dissolving
in a paroxysm of long-held breath.