ode to the sensual side of congestion

by sarah haggerty, the goddess of all things:


When she is under the weather,
a sultry temptress emerges
That deep, raspy, masculine voice
like a grandmother who smokes 3 packs a day
sends shivers down any man's spine
And her lips
chapped and swollen from frequent encounters with a box of Kleenex
could you ever desire a more succulent pair of kissable rose petals?

Her face
as white as kindergarten paste
speckled with the crimson of fever
and the blood vessels that surface
after repeated coughing fits
reminds me of a fresh blanket of snow
covered by tiny red cardinals
picking away for their dinner

The lackluster of her eyes
blue tides washed away
in sleepless nights
and drowning in an overdose of Nyquil
They stare vacantly
and she's naked and open as a clean blackboard

Her sweet aroma
stimulates every sense
the stinging of the metholatum
the pinch of eucalyptis
the fire of Robutussin
burns between us as we speak

She moves gracefully
like an old gray mare
too tired to fight her imprisionment any longer
slowly
very slowly
she glides
on a pillow of antihistamine
from work to lunch to work to home to her couch and her bed and her pillow

She's a vision in the slumber of illness
her ruby lips parted
the consistent drone of congested breath
like a songbird on a busy spring morning

She splays herself fully on her resting spot
throws caution to the wind
and lets the cats lie where they may

Magnet of animal attraction
the sensual princess of head colds sleeps