Being ill is, above all
a sensual thing.
Being reminded of your own mortality,
like never before,
of the reflexes that died in my womb.
It was a dreadful lesson that I've learnt.
I tended to my body
like a lover,
promising in blind faith
that all will be well.

Such luxurious peace—
It was very much like getting possessed, you know
Becoming painfully aware of nothing
but yourself crooked in a crouch
is the only way to stand,
for it is too laborious even to stand straight.
And the noise,
the constant thumping of the heart.
pulsations bleeching
too much, too loud.

What do I know of health before this?
Now it begs my attention like a serpent's hiss.
Dissolving all but sense and solitude,
gripping
me into the lore of pure consciousness.
Like a true predator,
languishing
over yet another sleepless night.