“Old men were once young, but it is uncertain if young men will reach old age.”
Sometimes breath catches in the throat
like a bad dream. The lungs anguish
themselves intertwined with thin
plastic tubes & scars on the face dreary
among shards of glass. When I sleep, my
teeth drip out one by one
like honey & my tongue prods
the emptiness each one leaves behind.
Sometimes breath dissipates in the air
like the unfolding of skin.
The head against a cracked windshield or
a tumor flipping inside the stomach.
Sometimes breath slumbers and
slows & I look into the
foggy mirror when the shears
snip away at mama’s hair.