The Green Couch
in Mr. McGregor's Garden
 

Abrasive upholstry,
stiff-rooted fibers.
Hands and fist fight
to free themselves
from tangled blankets,
rough and scratchy.

My throat, the same.
I fear to swallow,
hestitate to breathe,
can't think straight,
eye sockets sinking,
filled with sand and grit.

Angry tonsils,
dry mouth
split lip, chapped raw,
teeth like glass.
Fever has stolen my head,
shivers rattle me.

Goosebumps
uproot my hair,
ride terror over my scalp,
down my neck, disarming me,
freezing my shoulders,
breaking my back.

Motionless, unable
to kick free the heat,
I feel the weight of her,
pressing down upon
the wide green expanse,
making a dent in my world.

Responding, I ache anew,
sweet release, somehow.
She has arrived, finally
has quiet words now,
reads softly, Peter Rabbit.
I think I must be dying.