something_s we make
When breathing suddenly resides
between reaching and sighing,
there seems to exist a shortage of sorts
and not merely of oxygen molecules around me.
But why is it
that when there’s shortage-
a kind of missage-
that weight is created?
How can an absence turn into a heavy presence?
Perhaps the clenching circumstance is this:
that something’s come from inside my chest
and is sitting on top of it now,
waiting, simply this.
Surely, the last thing that will make it move is air,
though all I long for is this.
So I drink it in, gulpingly,
and lift my chest and both the shoulders
and rely merely now on reflex
to find or create, whichever it may be,
where currently only shortage grips.