Day 11: Head Cold

My head is stuffed with cotton and I am deaf in one ear,

or near enough to hear only the soft reverberations of words,

like mutterings or apologies, half swallowed and rolled around beneath the tongue.

I am surely developing a rightward tilt,

my body leaning to catch the world in my one good ear,

my senses maneuvering past the soft, thick clouds rooted in my skull.

The thing at the back of my throat, at least, approves heartily,

grumbling and ruffling and spouting its apologies in gasps and bursts,

scratching in satisfaction up and down between my chest and the roof of my mouth,

longing achingly to stretch itself out beyond the reaches of my sinuses and my ear canals,

traversing the insides of my head like thick, red mercury.