by Emily Leithauser
How would I know her throat was sore; she’s got
vowels and a few letters with hard edges:
it’s awbay for strawberry; peese for please; indo
for window. How will I watch for fever? What
if I fall asleep? How high will the peak be, and is
her door, the one we latch with the converted chain
of a vintage purse, open wide enough to hear
the sound of her little voice, the burn of wordless
illness? Every morning I scour her for signs
she might have caught the virus. Turn to my phone
where smoke turns California gray as newspaper,
where someone has rolled a shirt up, a bare arm
exposed, while a nurse whose eyes are far away
is holding a syringe like a fountain pen,
and our daughter, in this unseasonable summer heat,
plays with scraps of sunshine on our bed.
Emily Leithauser received her MFA from Boston University and her PhD from Emory University. Her first book, The Borrowed World, was published by Able Muse Press in 2016. Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Poetry International Online, New Ohio Review, and The Common, among other publications. Her scholarship and reviews have appeared in The Global South, The Hopkins Review, Literary Matters, and the Kenyon Review. She teaches English and creative writing at Morehouse College. She lives in Atlanta with her husband and two children.