30% oxygen extubation
it is not so much freedom but a pulmonary edema
it is not so much a pulmonary edema
but the wrought cliche of butterflies in your chest
her mother half-sick would recollect a memory
a birthday party
like dross from a magician’s hat the theremin screaming
of a child stumbling upon his father dead
to you to you
a gift for you.
though the orphan couldn’t know this
until the coroner pulled in softly inside
his father’s lungs
broke the ashy foam-wash like coke-mentos
he had breathed those carcinogens in so deep so practiced
for the anatomy of a car exhaust is three steps removed
from a bong and a bong is one short hop
from the fragrance of bdellium.
both require a tired human
to place her hand gently atop the mouthpiece
like the stillicide of children
as if a line can be drawn between mist and haze or from infancy
we learn to seek the hard arithmetic first
well
i am seeking now
father
so forgive me for what i become
for the hospital beds. forgive
my emphysema for my hunger.
like ships, passing
her ex of three years ago
slid into her dm’s, said wassup
i think you were the love of my life.
she laughed. but maybe,
moments earlier, before sending anything,
his thumbs had hovered over the keys
the way his dad used to toss him
into the community pool:
a kid hovered over
a finite, pale sea