The virus screwed itself into my cells,
twisting communication lines, breaking
code, inverting instructions. The bells
ring at night, my blood pools all day. Waking
like a hamadryad from hibernation,
wondering why, when everyone else sleeps,
why still leafless and bare. Claudication
reversed, cold pain crawls up from toes to knees
as I cocoon in fleece and furs. That freeze
is the sign of high noon’s warped heat baking
the cold sleeper into a fluffy sleeve
like a human Baked Alaska. Shaking
doesn’t warm enough. The body repels
vulnerability, recodes its shell.
NOTE: The NaPoWriMo prompt for today involved using terms from two dictionaries at opposite ends of a cognitive spectrum, a Classical Dictionary (from whence came “hamadryad”) and a Historical Science Fiction Dictionary (from whence came “cold-sleeper”). The form is a somewhat circular variation on the classic Shakespearean sonnet, with the rhyme scheme: abab cdcd dbdb aa.