Tidal Volume
for D.
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.
