Nine Poems

Malaria

In the arrogance of wellbeing we thought ourselves
immune, but
    after dark, as the text books warned, we were surprised
by the mosquito-attack of words between us. We failed to
unknot
    the net, turned back on itself, unopened over our bed
like a birdcage shrouded to trick the song bird to sleep.
    The chills and fever of reproach and comprehension;
the flush of confusion between the two had us ruefully leap
    to the conclusion that this was the deadliest strain.
But as the malady ran its course, we realized
    it was the less malign strain of parasite.
Though, mind you, the next night, fully convalesced
    in each other's company, we didn't this time neglect,
in a by-the-way fashion, to untie the net that open, hung
...