THE CHALICE OF BREATH

Why is it, some think, held breath helps one hear all?
Helps to see themselves fully in their mirrored hall.
Mind and body, skewered,  viewed as a circus tent,
with torn, tattered awnings, sly, and yawning rents.

And how is it, spent breath can remain, so full of life?
Like an exhausted child, or an outraged, wife?
Spent breath, spilt like fresh milk, all over the room,
or spreading as warm blood, from a mortal wound.

Tell me what you feel?
What seems right, wrong or real,
is not the question at hand,
rather, why is it, some live so long, in a breathless land?

Tushie   1983


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