Spiracle

You breathed smoke into my face

and told me it is better to breathe fire

than recycled oxygen.

That’s all well and good,

but you are still stagnant beneath the nicotine.

 

I, too, am tired of stale air.

Tear out these clumsy lungs

and carve tunnels in my sides;

let me breathe like a grasshopper,

my body: a sieve

for the atmosphere to whistle into.

Make me the filter of your cigarette—

inhale, imbue me with embers.

I could be the interstate,

all speed and travel and newness;

rush into me

the way the road rushes into the mountain,

filled with the sounds of fast blood,

the hiss of air blistering beneath my skin,

susurrous.

It may not be much like what you hear in your own head,

but at least this is real.

 

(c) Marie KR 2014

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