There are fevers that you have
once in a while when the time is not right
that splits your head into two
makes your body go through
fire and ice
and unlike the Robert Frost poem
there’s nothing metaphoric or beautiful
about the pain you are suffering
in this hell on earth.
The pain is so excruciating
that you can’t help but
revert back to your childhood memories
when your mother put a wet towel
over your burning feverish head
and watched over you for hours
hoping that her only son will feel better soon.