Breathe.
Softly, under the covers.
Hiding from the slobbering
monsters.
Breathe.
With short, quick
Gasps, for your first
Game of mattress twister.
Breathe.
Fast, yet assuredly
In the moments
Before the gun.
Muscle spasms
Of anticipation.
Breathe.
Frantically like the
Teen who just jacked
A case of beer
And a t.v.
Breathe.
For the clarity that comes
Only in the time between
A midnight reheated pizza
Session and collapse
On an unmade bed.
Breathe.
Calming worked up thoughts
Playing tag like 5-year olds
In the antique stores
Of my head.
Breathe.
As a mother calming
A rage directed
At her own little bundles
Of God and smart remarks.
Breathe.
No, drag,
Like the faded hippy
Who’s had a pack
Too many.
Breathe.
Because if you don’t
You will asphyxiate
Yourself. And die
(Greek: A -without
Sphyxia-heartbeat)
Which sounds unpleasant.
Breathe.
A death rattle
To fight for your
Last breath.
Breathe.
Deeply.
The rest will follow.
