The Thomas Hardy Stage

I’ve gotten to a stage of cold
when coughs require standing up,
erect – as if the body wanted to caw
out a grisly aria: to open airways
to provide whatever was inside
its unimpeded exit: project its
vexed, odd music – this cacophony

of my phlegmatic symphony: erratic
and percussive – full of spasm –
and yet passionate – each cough
another angry beast of grief
determined to be born – now set on
leaving me at last. One should expect,
perhaps, to feel post-partum blues

after these virally induced rough
gasps: some guilt about ejecting
these sad Hardyesque rejected
blobs of child – reviled, unlucky
and pathetic messes – Judes
and Tesses no one wants: coughs,
like Thomas Hardy’s litter’s runts.



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