I was ten
That winter night
When my brain
Burned with fever
And I lay
Dreaming awake
That you had come back
From the firmament;
An unwinged angel
Sitting at my bedside
Speaking words
That sounded like fire
In my ears.
I don’t know
If it was real anymore.
Maybe it was just yearning
To touch you once more
The way the blind read braille;
Or maybe it was just
The hot syllables of sickness
Wailing like sinners
At a tent revival
Behind my burning eyes.
But whatever it was
That night, with the snow
Beginning to fall
Your hand touched my skin
And the fever broke.

Tom Darin Liskey is a poet and a photographer
The photograph and the poem are his work