Days, weeks, months, I stopped counting, unable to take a deep breath.
The kind you don’t notice till it’s gone. The kind that says, yes, the next rung of air is there to step to. A breath like you’re thinking of what comes next, and it comes.
*
It’s not dangerous, I’m told, this not-quite-enoughness of air, lungs ballooning against what’s arrayed against them. I imagine tiny hands, fingers splayed, pressing the way I might press a sleeping bag to roll it tight.
Or, better: lungs stretching and gently touching what’s above. Glancing. The way the eyes might glimpse a summit through trees, a summit they’ll reach if they stick to the trail.
*
Some days I lose the trail.
I’ve left a pencil beside every chair in the house.…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2025