Attention, if given, is perfunctory. This physician’s assistant, that nurse practitioner, not ever the doctor, pretend to listen, what can they know about something no one knows, without glancing at your grey face, they type endlessly into crispy flaked laptop crackers where their eyes can hide.
Insist (desperately, hopelessly) how your cauldron of fever stew has been stirred, it boils, a stockpot of internal heat, 105 degree days and nights, and on and on; could it be tuberculosis, the flu, true love, or pneumonia for the second, or is it the third time, but no. it is anxiety, such a simple diagnosis, submit an electronic psychiatric referral, all done.
Return to your bed, your sweat lodge sanctuary, where your skeleton glows, flame lit from within, pancreas on fire, skin blistered and burning, melting into steaming puddles, a smear of salt and sinew residue on the bathroom floor, and the ash that was once your body rises, drifts like vaped smoke, finds its way skyward; it curses the wind, but with nowhere else to go, the air it once gasped for, welcomes it home.
My Lungs Betray Me Again
Ask about my lungs, these sagging, empty sacs, twin sponges, dry and cracked as Sonoran mud, useless as blown, popped, deflated bubble gum. They ignore oxygen as one would an annoying child, pretending not to hear the needy whining the gasping, panicked cries.
It is their long forgotten job to inhale gases, blend in equal parts warmth and moisture, transform the mixture into rhythmic, predictable, boring breath, in other words, to respirate, though they insist they can’t. They blame their scarred lobes and shredded bronchial tubes, such are their chewed up, spit out excuses.
Reality is my lungs, behaving like hungry, frantic dogs at mealtime, jumping and yelping at the fence, when they should be hunting for the gate. Why bother with X-rays, MRIs, ventilators, inhalers? Turn on a faucet full force, and ignore the flood. My lungs have betrayed me again, and I drown in air.
When There Is No Air
Air you drown in it
held under by virus
by fractured cells
don’t make plans, you will disappoint
be disappointed
Air there is none, you are incapable of apologies
of believing yourself
capable of breath
Air watch caterpillars, a hundred feet
letting go
raining
down
on your
chest
it collapses under their
weight
Air ways shredded
soft as cocoons
reducing your lungs
into bronchia and alveoli
devoid of air.
