My body is a battle ground

I have been inhabited; I cough like an old man; my skin prickles and bristles; my brain wants out, if only for the day. I have a sense of the battle that is happening, which the eye cannot see – I can feel the charges, the retreats, and the mustering – but can only guess about the plan, and from whence come the orders: certainly not from me. Lines of communication have been cut, and therefore I can only guess about what supplies to send. I want to ask how much longer this will go on, want to insist that I don’t do ‘nothing’ well, but I know there will be no answer to my cries.


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