By E. Wells

It courses through veins
liquid sharp
spreading like tree roots;
blood distils
allowing an intruder
to barge in
shooting hand pistols.
Sickness, dizzy spells
start within hours:
heady, trippy, sloth-like;
arms are leaden levers
tar-filled, too heavy;
legs feel hollow,
unsteady as a fledgling’s.
I totter through hours:
marking essays
teaching Of Mice & Men;
life is blurry,
a distorted softness
that trills of danger,
not securing slumber.
Painkillers force semblance:
school pick-up
my child’s tea;
a bath passes
in surrealist brushstrokes;
the tap echoes
a metallic world,
bent, skewed out of shape.
My head is heavy –
a bowling ball,
weighted, gravity-grabbing;
my head falls,
toppling like a BLM statement:
statues of political pollution,
drowning in misogyny.
My glands stand to attention –
salute an invasion,
stretch, pirouette-tall;
they’re proud protectors
aching, vibrating
in acute agony
as Pfizer defeats,
spreading partial immunity
to a tired, overworked
key-worker shell.

Emma has poetry published by: The World’s Greatest Anthology, The League of Poets, The Lake, The Beckindale Poetry Journal, Dreich Magazine, Drunken Pen Writing, Visual Verse, Littoral Magazine, Derailleur Press and for the Ledbury Poetry Festival.  

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Leslie Timmins
7 months ago

Hi Emma: so well done! Great description of the physical reaction to the vaccine and to all the life duties that must be done regardless. Love the ‘hand pistols” and “heady, trippy, sloth-like,” “tar-filled, too heavy,” and “gravity grabbing.” Great word sounds and images. Thank you.

Leigh Anne Kranz
Leigh Anne Kranz
7 months ago

Hi Emma!
I love this poem! You nailed the feeling.

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