The Migraine Sonnet

The Migraine Sonnet  

The headache squatted in the woman’s temple
like a mist crouching on a stubbled field.  It should
have been beautiful:  the woman could mend
in bed all day, no one would blame her, but

lying in bed wasn’t much fun. The woman was
having trouble listening to the novel on tape
because the headache was beginning to stab her eye,
odd that what began as a mist could harden

into knife. That was the problem with pain,
it began as a romantic desire to wander
loony as a cloud, and smote her to her couch

in vacant mood, then ravaged so much
of her brain.  With the wisp of mind left, 
she couldn’t remember the poet’s name.