by Ann Howells
Every February she lies unstarched,
flushed as flannels Mama tucks around her
to sweat the fever. Thermometer
reads 106 degrees, her slight body twitches,
and Mama fears she will convulse.
She refuses flat ginger ale through a straw,
Campbell’s chicken gumbo,
cup custards redolent of nutmeg.
We wonder if she dreams as she lies waxen,
not stirring the bedclothes.
We whisper and tiptoe—
must seem shadow puppets
entering, leaving the darkened room
she views through frosted glass,
eyes glazed as the sky that portends snow
while fevers spike and dip. The danger
is her heart, its sticky valves strep-affected.
Lying on one side, small face pale as sheets,
she offers weak smiles
to silly-voiced stuffed animals,
friction motorcycles racing rills of coverlet,
cross-dressed paper dolls with which we try
to amuse her.
Then, the illness is gone. She’s rough and tumble:
clamors to race bikes, roller skate,
join street hockey games—stamina recovered
though heartbeat still stutters.
Ann Howells’ poetry has recently appeared in Crannog (Ire), San Pedro River Review, and Spillway, among others. She serves on the board of Dallas Poets Community, a 501-c-3 non-profit, and has edited Illya’s Honey since 1999. Her publications are: Black Crow in Flight (Main Street Rag), Under a Lone Star (Village Books Press), Letters for My Daughter (Flutter Press) and Cattlemen and Cadillacs, an anthology of DFW poets which she edited (Dallas Poets Community).