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.