My Fortunate Lungs

In porch lights, We arc, trace fingers

down stairs. Meet her at the bottom,

force hands apart, touch lips so fair,

She moans,

“Fortunate, my love.”


I pull her close and inhale, with

everything I’ve got,

My fortunate lungs:

they love her so much.


Something pure goes ashen,

a voice is drawn, under strain;

I can’t surface, tortured

in a fashion—

too low to see,

too dim to leave.


Our circle of pierced dark:

a porch light, a folded core

between fingers and palms

and into my mouth; the

fortune claimed, ashen,

a circle of withdrawn love,

taken back to wherever it

comes from, gone from

this porch stair, retreating

instead to the coldest bar,

drowning itself in the drinks

it finds there.


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