my fever burnt a hole
straight through my
grandmother’s quilt.
the cottage was thick
with lavender smoke
like this was magic,
as if everything wasn’t
too painful to think about.
the river flowed on.
the trees continued
their slow shift
into rust.
I submerged my body
in a bathtub full of honey
if only to coat this
burning throat,
to make everything move
just a bit slower.
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