A lot of it lives in the trachea, you know.
But not so much that you won’t need more muscle:
the diaphragm, a fist clenching at the bottom.
Inhale. So many of us are breathless,
you know, like me
kneeling to collect the pottery shards
of a house plant my elbow has nudged
into oblivion. What if I sigh,
and the black earth beneath me scatters
like insects running from my breath?
Am I a god then? Am I insane
because I worry about the disassembling of earth
regularly? I walk more softly now
into gardens or up the steps of old houses
with impatiens stuffed in their window boxes.
When it’s you standing there with a letter
or voice or face full of solemn news,
will you hold your breath before you knock?
This is a stunning poem. “kneeling to collect the pottery shards / of a houseplant my elbow has nudged / into oblivion” – I have those moments! Moments ordinary to anyone else that strike me as poetry in motion. Though I will admit I initially read it as “poetry shards” and I might enjoy the sound of that more. Whoops.