Author of two previous collections of poetry: BLACK HOPE (1997) and ANTIDOTE FOR NIGHT (2015). de la O is also the publisher of the journal ASKEW.\u0026lt;br\u0026gt;\u0026lt;br\u0026gt;\u0026lt;b\u0026gt;Keats at Fourteen\u0026lt;/b\u0026gt; \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;She dozes, her nails fretted against the linen\u0026#8217;s border,\u0026lt;br\u0026gt;a hectic rose flaming each cheek. Her lips move, no words. \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;The boy is guardian spirit, no one but he enters this sickroom \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;where his mother fades, home finally after six years\u0026#8212;failures,\u0026lt;br\u0026gt;disgrace. \u0026lt;i\u0026gt;Scarlet daughter,\u0026lt;/i\u0026gt; neighbors hiss,\u0026lt;i\u0026gt; slave to appetite, \u0026lt;/i\u0026gt;\u0026lt;br\u0026gt;but John is single-minded\u0026#8212;she\u0026lt;i\u0026gt; will \u0026lt;/i\u0026gt;live\u0026lt;i\u0026gt;. \u0026lt;/i\u0026gt;No one but he gives her \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;the tincture of mercury\u0026#8212;one tenth of a grain daily, dabs the sweat \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;of her fevers away, a basket of withered poppies at his feet. He pierces \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;each capsule with a needle, drops it in a small glazed crock to warm \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;near the stove, sweat out the opium. Then he\u0026#8217;ll add wine, saffron, \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;nutmeg. It takes time, the hour darkens. He cups his hand \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;to light the votive. She moans a furred voice from webbed lungs, \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;a cup of black blood brimming, \u0026lt;i\u0026gt;the pilgrim is fleeing the City, \u0026lt;/i\u0026gt;\u0026lt;br\u0026gt;he leans in closer, \u0026lt;i\u0026gt;the City of Destruction, \u0026lt;/i\u0026gt;takes her clammy hand, \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;\u0026lt;i\u0026gt;that place also where he was born,\u0026lt;/i\u0026gt; so close now he\u0026#8217;s breathing her, \u0026lt;br\u0026gt;âJohnny\u0026lt;i\u0026gt;,\u0026lt;/i\u0026gt;â she cries, âlift me up, Johnny, your father is here in the room.
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