Shantih Journal 2.1 - Page 48

After the Flu stacy rollins After I kill this flu, I’m going to put on my Doc Martens from 1993 I’m going to speedwalk in the February sun down 8th Ave. and across Prospect Park West I know the overnight snow has mattress padded the entire park and the snowmen are gleaming sunmen in a slippery, crystalline zenith, just as the temp- erature tops 40, an¡d I’ll be stomping with my flu-killing determination through the slush puddles to knock them out, too I’m going to inhale the glowing chill deep until my aching alveoli turn into birthday balloons and carry me to the top of the hill where the six-year olds are revving up their dinky sleds and I am going to fall, and laugh, because six inches of snow beginning a fever of its own has so much give, it is weak and glorious and dying off rapidly. A dad drapes a black windbreaker around a snowman. It’s not even cold anymore. He’s making it worse for the snowman. I’ll come home with shoes that went for a winter swim and sweat under my fuzzy hat. I’m going to bring this all home to a roaring dishwasher and ordinary things with photographs of light that magnifies light through clawed branches of gray trees pained with arthritic knots like hands of a crone. I’ll come home holding an invisible string up to the lonesome sun working overtime to lift me up through the creaking rafters of the old sky while a block of ice dislodging from the brace of itself plunks from the roof of my brownstone to the sidewalk, just missing the tail of a Dachshund. 48