He brings the first unease in his throat to me for healing.
Despite old mock disdain for their strangeness,
he defers to his mother’s cures.

We start with the basics: garlic, echinacea, tea,
steam, Zinc, vitamin C.  It hurts too much to swallow.
For once he won’t eat.  I call the homeopath

for a remedy.  Today he misses soccer practice
and is off the phone in minutes. This is serious.
He wakes with an abscess on his tonsils.

His few words are garbled, swollen like the belly
of a ewe bloated on oats. His face is sallow,
breath labored. His doctor prescribes wonder drugs.

You’ll feel better in hours, I assure him.
But a day brings no change.  This must be
some killer strain grown bold from overcoming mold.

He hasn’t seen his girl all week.  He is weak
and thin when I take him in.  He needs IVs,
an ENT, an I & D.  He is stuck for blood,

cultured, sensitized, admitted, lanced to wellness,
drained, injected and filled, returned to his
comedic pluck and tease.  The girl shows up

with flowers.  In twenty-four hours, dismissed,
he wants to play soccer.  He asks for car keys,
needs to see the girl. What can I say?

Western medicine has given him back to the world.