Breathe into you,

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Free verse poem about my mother who has had a swallowing problem for the past four years and depicting the struggle with it.

Submitted: July 13, 2012

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Submitted: July 13, 2012




Breath into you,

by ~EdenWanderlusts

I duplicate myself into phantom parts. Here. Here. Here. Keep everybody satisfied - are they 
satisfied? Your eyelashes remind me of tiny hairs on the bark of a tree (I want to scrape it off and keep it
as a good luck charm. Where is my good luck?)
 instead I stare at them enviously when you are not looking 
and use the skin on my palms as a scratching post like a deranged cat.

"Talk to God. Everything that happens is how He wants it to happen, you must (must must must. What is 
this must?)
 understand." I take pride in the fact that I give everything a try. I start out alright and talk to 
the big guy but then I see how your legs are turning child-like and knobby. I look at your face and it 
is small and tired despite your smiles. Always smiling, you liar. I try and negotiate with him. I'll save every 
living thing that crosses my way if you add those lives to her years. One life for one year, deal?
I am on my knees in the middle of the street. I will save every ant, just you keep your eye on me. 

After several nights; or were they weeks? I don't know. Why don't I know these things? of sitting in 
uncomfortable chairs disguised as comfortable, watching you, counting your breaths. Breath. Breath. 1659766 
1659767. Please remember to breath,
 I contemplate how to feed you my breaths. I sit by and listen to 
them observe you. Talk about you as the patient. There is a name. Why don't they use your name? I get 
angry with Him. Like a stubborn six-year-old I lie in bed, lie in those uncomfortable chairs and threaten 
him that unless he makes this goddamn illness disappear, I won't utter another word. Not one word, big guy. 
Mark my words.
 (not that there will be any.) 

I can almost hear him laughing under his pretentious holy breath.

I am head strong and don't talk to Him for weeks until I see you decline. Waste away. There you go. 
Where are you going? Don't go.
 I start my negotiating again; tell a little white lie about how I'll even come 
do his work for him because please please please.

When I see food trays I want to smash them. At ungodly hours I rant at Him. Food trays! Take away the 
damn food trays!
 I try another shenanigan and tell him that if you don't eat, I don't eat. What is hunger? 
Don't talk to me about hunger, fucker. It stares me in the face and taunts me - shakes its ass and runs 
away into your body when I want to throw a kitchen knife at it in the flimsy hope of killing it. 

Here.Here.Here. I cup my hands and blow in the hope that my breath will flow into yours, replace the bad 
in you. I don't eat so that maybe maybe maybe you can. I want to connect a life line from my heart to yours 
and feed you all my good so that you can breath. I hunt for magical remedies like my life depends on it (yours 
does depend on it)
 I count your breaths like I count shooting stars. 1659768. 1659769. I show Him this in 
the hope that he will take pity before I start to get discouraged. I feel so discouraged.

I blow all my air into your direction anyway and try not to think of what will happen when I run out of my own air.

please please please.


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