.

Christmas, 1993

One Christmas,

I was mildly ill

A sore throat and a back ache

That's all it was

But – I felt like being a convalescent

So, with codeine and oxycodone

I induced

A five-day recovery

My relatives looked on in pity or shame

As the rings under my eyes grew darker

My breathing shallower

And always through the mouth

Something depraved

about breathing through the mouth

I got up only to pick at the vast platters of meat

Or to swig cold ginger beer, straight from the bottle

The bottle others would drink from

I wasn't obliged to say much,

which was great

at Christmas

I found a subtle joy in changing beds throughout the day:

The couch;

The armchair;

The lounge-room rug;

And the beds:

All of the beds