• Beatrice Iker

Poem #13: Giant Like Wolves

I did not know I hadn't experienced Death as an adult until it happened. How can that be?

When Death stole my lungs, breathing became contract work - I had to build my own respiratory system without the help of nature.

How did I not see others with holes (giant like wolves) in their chests? How can this level of oblivion exist?

What do I do with a chest so open vultures circle my withering body while I sleep?

How, what can I sing?

What melody can escape my parched lips with such devastating beauty that Death will remember me? Give me back my lungs? Let nature hire me with a salary of breath?

How many more lungs has Death stolen? And what will happen now that I sleep with a medicine bottle on top of my axe?

Who will, I will, no one can save me.

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