FEVER DREAM by Michelle Reale

Haste is not a virtue. What I would have sworn were memories, I now realize might have
been dreams, tucked into the nautilus of a fevered brain cowering in a corner..  I have
been so rash my entire life. Slow living is extolled among the aged, but what else are they
supposed to do? The dry mouths, gaping, and the rheumy eyes searching have seen better
days.  If I stretch the skin, like cellophane, across the cheekbones of my father’s face, he
becomes a blur, a thing out of focus, but the clock is still ticking and we count every one.
My mother will crochet her own variegated shroud to save anyone else the trouble. Her
grimace masquerades as a smile, and much pain is to be given up for the sanctity of the
world. The humoral issues at play have fangs, and they are planted firmly in our necks.
Our moon faces are waxy and tinged with yellow. They lack the grace we believe might
save us. The breviary with its colorful ribbons collects dust on the nightstand, its pages
warped, but still, it moans in the dark. Everything is beyond the urgent grasp.
The shivering in the night, the drenching of sweat in the day is not an omen. But it might
as well be.

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​Michelle Reale is the author of several poetry and flash collections, including Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) and Blood Memory (Idea Press), and In the Year of Hurricane Agnes (Alien Buddha Press).  She is the Founding and Managing Editor for both OVUNQUE SIAMO: New Italian-American Writing and The Red Fern Review.