Not a whoosh. Surprisingly
fast—why? I shouldn’t
be out of breath.
fast—why? I shouldn’t
be out of breath.
The breaths come, unformed
by tongue, un-carved by
teeth, each one whistling
by tongue, un-carved by
teeth, each one whistling
in the nose. Combed
into a thousand strands—
harp strings? Locks of hair
into a thousand strands—
harp strings? Locks of hair
hanging over the eyes?
But more like a
sawing, really—vertical grain
But more like a
sawing, really—vertical grain
of a wood spike
left after the tree
falls. Or just a
left after the tree
falls. Or just a
wet tree stump. If
there were words, when,
in truth, there are
none, breath would be there were words, when,
in truth, there are
like in that song:
Choking on the splinters.
Choking on the splinters.
