Helen as Pathetic 1950s Florence Nightingale
A mother nearly stumbles in beside
The beds, each boy in misery of flu
As if in torture chambers. They have cried
Themselves to whimpering sleep like kittens mew
When dying. Husband also mashed down, slammed
In fever, stays in bed and leaves her task
To her alone. She finds herself hot damned
In shaking chills. She wraps a woollen mask
Around each throbbing throat that she has rubbed
With penetrating camphor, itchy fleece
Increasing torment in four sons all slubbed
With scratchiness denying each one peace.
And then she staggers back to suffer in
Damp sheets, contented with her mercy sin.
~ Phillip Whidden