Poem

February Flu

John Poch

Month of the least death poetry,
I pity you: a bone of a day
once every four years tossed your way.
You bury it.

A fever coming on, a swoon
and liquid filling up a spoon.
There’s time for only one full moon.
You carry it.

The heart of you is candy hearts,
symmetrical sans blood. Cruel arts,
Pandora’s chocolate box with charts:
You ferry it,

seven by four, across the air
in snowshoes, open it to share
the blizzard of love’s polar bear.
I marry it.

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