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.<br><br><b>Keats at Fourteen</b> <br>She dozes, her nails fretted against the linen's border,<br>a hectic rose flaming each cheek. Her lips move, no words. <br>The boy is guardian spirit, no one but he enters this sickroom <br>where his mother fades, home finally after six years—failures,<br>disgrace. <i>Scarlet daughter,</i> neighbors hiss,<i> slave to appetite, </i><br>but John is single-minded—she<i> will </i>live<i>. </i>No one but he gives her <br>the tincture of mercury—one tenth of a grain daily, dabs the sweat <br>of her fevers away, a basket of withered poppies at his feet. He pierces <br>each capsule with a needle, drops it in a small glazed crock to warm <br>near the stove, sweat out the opium. Then he'll add wine, saffron, <br>nutmeg. It takes time, the hour darkens. He cups his hand <br>to light the votive. She moans a furred voice from webbed lungs, <br>a cup of black blood brimming, <i>the pilgrim is fleeing the City, </i><br>he leans in closer, <i>the City of Destruction, </i>takes her clammy hand, <br><i>that place also where he was born,</i> so close now he's breathing her, <br>"Johnny<i>,</i>" she cries, "lift me up, Johnny, your father is here in the room.