Contagion
Nikolas Basmajian

I coughed up blood today.
     Each ragged breath in was met with protest from my lungs.
          Dilated pupils stared back at me in the mirror; my head jerked
               downwards as I erupted into a fit of coughs that scraped my throat 

clean. She walked past again; I might have
     said hello. In the moment, everything seemed fine.
          But then I went home and burned up another fever, like I
               couldn’t help myself. It shouldn’t be like this. I thought I was immune

to such a childish pathology. She couldn’t
     seem to sense it from me, even as it piqued 
          with each of her passing smiles or glances. No, it ravaged 
               my body and I left my coughs at home. My only remedy was denial:

a minor annoyance; a headache
     that would soon pass. Yet the pain lingered like frost
          to a windshield, creeping up the panes of my feeble conviction.
               My body hadn’t known this sickness before, yet it crept up too well to be

anything foreign. It perfumed 
     the air around her and I filled my lungs with it, which 
          blackened as trees do when grazed by playful embers, their bark 
               tempted by the promise of heat. But even I knew it etched only empty 

fairytales. I saw her again from afar. 
                                                                                                    Soulful, my contagion.

Nikolas Basmajian (PO '28) is a sophomore at Pomona. He likes biology, creative writing, and watching soccer games.