Fever

Christmas is so surprising,
so suddenly upon us,
unrehearsable and permanent
like a first kiss;
the moment you finally catch his eye
and hold it,
conveying you don't know what;
the day you arrive where you've been heading
and emerge from your car into dusk
and it's colder than you thought it would be.

A balloon full of some gas heavier than air
weighs on the city tonight,
grinding me into my bed,
making my dreams halt and sputter,
the back of my throat feel thick,
my fingers ball into fists,
sweat pouring down my shoulders;
I wake just enough to feel the damp
then fade back into the saltwater
of my personal bayou,
my swamp,
half-formed alligators morphing into you
then you, then you
all around me.

The holidays have happened
or are happening,
either way they can't be looked forward to.
Soon it will just be winter:
bleak but withstandable.
We will build hundreds of tiny fires;
we will watch for the northern lights;
my fever will crack and break;
I will look down just in time
to watch the ground open and swallow me,
then up to see my own hand reaching down
to pull me back up.