Friday, August 1, 2008

the lungs

twisted bronchi, tweaked with smoke
from yesterday's yard fire

(we love to burn things in the yard)
as though there are no neighbors

to smell the stench of yard-trash
and soak it into lungs

alveoli wretched, gory gray,
not pink with the oxygen
of prayer

lungs like hands folded in our
chest cringing from
exposure to the living earth

so we consume, and burn
and lungs grow weary
and tighten

rib cage and sternum,
are protection from chest blows
not from
when
the wind blows

7 comments:

Nathan1313 said...

The sounds in the first line of this just dance. This brings back the awful stench when my dad burned garbage in the yard. Fumes of burning plastic that it hurt to breathe. And those last lines...A wonderful poem.

holly said...

You are oh-so-kind, Nathan...I think we too have a mutual admiration society going on...like I have with Julie! We should all collaborate on a poem!

holly said...

Oh, and Scot too!

Nathan1313 said...

There's nothing wrong with some admiration when it real. And besides, mutual admiration is the best kind. I'll collaborate on something. (or were you joking?)

holly said...

I was certainly not joking!! HOW FUN! I love that kind of stuff!

Crafty Green Poet said...

painful and powerful words,,

holly said...

Thanks for visiting, Crafty...hope you come back...I enjoyed visiting your site, and will return!