The Cure
(After Yannis Ritsos)
Although the fever had left him
months before, he kept to his bed: the invalid, his room
a swelter of sweat and booze
and that meaty smell from the hide draped on the floor.
The creature had been skinned alive, he said;
the underside of the pelt still carried the pain
and sometimes, at night, you could see its hackles rise.
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