St. Vitus’ dance

A jig. Pray to god and little basal ganglia bugs that stand at attention and command March. Your face flails according to order: choreathetoid, choreathetoid, your jerky-sinuous lips pulled and pushed to command the martial music of a possessed two-year-old who can’t sleep because his heart bugs have autoimmuned. Sleep Child a mother says, and the great Syndenham asks what’s in a name and the febrile child is coursing, his mother applies cold cloths to the forehead, but the child hits invisible targets. Group A Streptococcus insists on mad ballet, of buck-sinister crump, the waking hours of the child devoted to marionette tugs. Yet the prognosis is good, the gyrating at St. Vitus’ altar proves transient. Look at the child, the body wracked, the face ticked, the parents afflicted, praying to patrons.