Though subdued, my fever remained.
Snow had closed the interstate.
I had time to delineate my boredoms,
To inspect my thoughts. My mother lifted
The cast-iron skillet with two hands,
Drained bacon fat into a tin can.
How easily the morning tired, aged into evening.
The fever stayed on like a pilot light.
Sleep, a useless pursuit, so easily achieved.
Sleep heavy, the weight and depth of lake ice.
Submerged, I practiced breathing underwater.
Copyright © 2018 by Eric Pankey
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission
Southern Poetry Review is the second oldest poetry journal in the region, with its origins in Florida and subsequent moves to North Carolina and now Georgia. Continuing the tradition of editorial openness and response to writers that began with Guy Owen in 1958, SPR publishes poems from all over the country as well as from abroad and maintains a worldwide readership. Past issues feature work from Chana Bloch, Billy Collins, Alice Friman, David Hernandez, Andrew Hudgins, Maxine Kumin, Heather McHugh, Sue William Silverman, R. T. Smith, Eric Trethewey, and Cecilia Woloch.