Soft as a blown rose, a tiny killer
seeps into your everything even white bone.
Sharp receptors grip like crampons as it
climbs down the chimney of your throat
to the soft hinterland of your lungs
ripe meadows about to be trashed.
Once base camp is set up
it storms your defences
you die hard and slow
fighting for every breath.
Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond
This poem was first published in Issue 30 (the Covid issue) of Amsterdam Quarterly March 2021: