wake her every four hours

ache arms when i am afraid,
a stone lodged for drowning
in my throat.
Advil, prescription dose.

there is a disease i have
yet to own. it climbs
rung by rung.
my cells sing choral lung.

i set the table for five
another boring martyr.
i am sick
my paste face, dingy freckles.

the fifth rib unsticks
i feel a turgid longing
for vomit
for redemption.

every doctor says the same
fine, fine, fine.
blood alkinine
and smooth, crisp as a green apple.

what makes this hard crust?
these blurry shapes,
rapid cresting tides
of vertigo leaping side to side?

the awful ache and slow contraction
without Vicodin,
without Xanex.
bring my pills direct to the gut.

i cannot swallow.

maggie may ethridge