Onset, Days 1-4 (I've never written about my illness)

The illness is not something I can separate
deconstruct; no meaning to
summer fever—platelet counts; body against
muscle consuming;
self. A lover once called it "your condition"
I had forgotten it was mine alone.

The last thing I remember
before the peripheral blindness that comes with
rising heat—one, two bites; cantaloupe
(I don’t even like melons)
cracked swallow; burst filters
sandy filth
ankles.

I'm sure I collapsed. At home?
It must have been after two days
that my father had to lift me,
bones rubber, snapping
swooping cradle; upward
now
a small child; come on baby girl.

Tongue lifted
arms cuffed
She’s choking.
The nurses seemed calmer than one would expect
when watching
a pretty little thing burn
from the inside out.