Respiration

A lot of it lives in the trachea, you know.

But not so much that you won’t need more muscle:

the diaphragm, a fist clenching at the bottom.

Inhale. So many of us are breathless,

you know, like me

kneeling to collect the pottery shards

of a house plant my elbow has nudged

into oblivion. What if I sigh,

and the black earth beneath me scatters

like insects running from my breath?

Am I a god then? Am I insane

because I worry about the disassembling of earth

regularly? I walk more softly now

into gardens or up the steps of old houses

with impatiens stuffed in their window boxes.

When it’s you standing there with a letter

or voice or face full of solemn news,

will you hold your breath before you knock?