Poison Berry

Is your stomach tight? Does it wrench when you stand up straight? Perhaps your body is advising against the expenditure. The urge to wipe your brow should be twice as strong as your salinized wince. It's just as well, your misted face keeps you from burning up. Every drop has cost you calories that you are not in any shape to recoup. All of your primary colors have filed behind two teams of trembling red and green hues. Your finger tips are not reporting back to you. A nonverbal minute warrants hand squeezing tests. Do your best to make me regret wearing rings. The only physicians out here are time and crossed fingers. If I sound like I am speaking under water, that means you must lay down flat. Your eyes reflect perfect grammar, but your tongue wriggles with barbaric vowel sounds. Surely if I put a water bottle to your lips you will aspirate. My rescue is premature. I can not palpate your chest as you still breath. Even the rodents are arrested by your shocking decline. Ancestral dreams are tugging you toward a domain where I can not follow. Removing your shirt has an optic of medical competence. Your fever remains unabated. Am I able to improvise surgical tools with tree bark? Will a fortuitous strike of lightning charge my brain seven years of residential training? Role play has faded into stunned spectatorship. You are already on that rickety bridge that connects here to there. Clumsy diagnostics gives way to honest witness. If only I could trade notes with your doula, such a meeting would establish that the end is more uncertain than the beginning.