I’ve spent days in stretched perception;
my elongated arms sit across the room,
my swelling hands bulge on the mantelpiece
and the room throbs like a ribbiting frog.

“Nothing’s wrong” I lie, dazed and *****
and close my eyes. One hand obscures the breeze
between lips, another clamps my nostrils shut.
But your hands are your own and bare no place
on my feverish, inclement face.

I **** bolt upright, and glare full beam.
Reel back, I tumble in and out of dreams.
Blink and the menace subsides; as cobra
turns to darting hare, you shriek and stare.

“What’s wrong?” your banshee screech pierces
ear to ear. Scrunch my eyelids, so returns
fierce medusa cursing in the mirror.
Hose me down and seize me from this fever
and for god’s sake woman, call the doctor.