I go back and see Keats in his Roman death bed.

He is five years my senior; at twenty-five, dead.

In his palm is the last sacred thing in the world;

A carnelian, safe in a palm weakly furled.

A gift from Fanny Brawne. He won’t see her again.

Two centuries later, my sisters have mystery

illnesses, surgery-bound; they both carry

stuffed ducks from my Nana; a get-well-soon charm

which fit snug in the crook of their IV-drip arms.

My sisters hold ducks in their hospital beds-

Pale children, blue robes, eyelids drooped, lips un-red

I, too, get a duck, so I won’t feel left out

Keats cared for his brother before his first bout-

Anaphylaxis, consumption, may be parallel.

They say Keats thanked God just before he went down.

I held the duck when my throat shut for a spell,

A marble-sized bump on my lip, like a crown.

I didn’t go to the hospital. I was just fine.

In 1820 John Keats went to Rome to die. 200 years later,

I give up on studying between the Tiber and Sistine Chapel.

I read about his stone and cry.

I feel more like Joseph Severn, sometimes.

He painted John Keats; they both went to Rome.

Like Matryoshka dolls, they lie:

Severn, Keats, and the Stone.

I live on and paint springs that go by and go by.

Sometimes, of course, things turn out alright.

I lie at the doctor’s all of the time.

I think when I go, people will be surprised.