Tidal Volume

A body can weep. Its arms

and belly. Its feet, hung

from the edge, weep a sticky,

rose-colored pattern on the floor.

Waterlogged, we open like gauze.

What should be separate

blends and taints. The drip

chamber, the insensible

loss of tears, vapor. Before

mechanical ventilation she asks

for a Diet Pepsi, parched

by nerve’s necessity—salt junk,

womb, margarita, sweat.

Petals blow in the blush

of contrast. Whisper of removal,

heaves and flutters. Hands

on her chest, she says I feel

birds in the courtyard. Hands

over her eyes, she says You

look tired. How far is your home?

In the reflection, I see her

at a dinner table. She’s not

wearing a gown, not bruised.

Borders move and strand us,

poised bridgeless, convergence

of persistence and arrest.

Hands open, she says My wallet

with everything is right here.