by Shannen Barrow
Smoke and dust fill my lungs like silver needles
edging on my itching throat.
Now holding a blackened hand to my chest, burning.
Every time I breathe in smoldering air,
sweat sticks to my skin and blurry eyes.
Tossing my head in sunken cotton threads,
here my nightmares are
unable to sleep as horns blare through dense streets.
Whenever I cough and weep, it resonates,
squeezing my pillow
where my sighs are kept.
In my mind,
refusing to lie still.
Humid air creeps over my side.
Heavy pressure in my lungs sometimes,
like swallowing hay dipped in cinnamon,
tongues dry in my mother’s sight when supper comes,
replacing a slick cavern of words with dust.
No matter how much water I pump, this
pipe buried in dirt cracks, a jar and cap,
splitting as her spicy soup holds my tongue.
How to breathe, how to eat,
How to drink, how to sleep?
Morning breaks
through a haze scattered that way—an eastern ocean,
to where I see the Grand Gas Sphere.
Knowing fear never waits
for the gray ghosts I wander after
along curving roads.
Treading under the blinding roots of purple thunder,
spinning the mountain smoke up,
to where blue birds must turn their backs, or die.