Ode to a Stomach Flu

You have very little to do with the stomach at all, which remains precipitously empty for several days as I writhe and moan and wish for death.

Evacuation orders have been sent to every ounce of energy in my body, and the essence of all that once was food escapes from the most convenient orifice.

I cry, and then remember that I must conserve my precious salty tears.

A piece of toast, a watering mouth, a hand grenade when the pin is pulled…you are all the same to me now.

And through feverish chills I wonder what could have been - what was - what you’ve taken from me, and what life there could have been in the weeks you’ve etched away.

Oh, nightmarish bacterial infection, you are.