Bathroom Grief

I have never felt

such

upheavals.

Chest weightless,

choking on the lightness of my breath.

Where to find sustenance for my spinning head?

On the down beat, the sigh settles as clay,

heart suctioned to the floor,

slurping and gulping -

a fish out of water lying on a tiled bathroom shore.

Little black and white hexagons,

my eye so close that the tiles blur on the horizon,

into grey.

With rattling breath a word is attempted.

The grunt of a syllable, an undeciphered consonant,

followed perhaps by a vowel -

cut short by a heaving chest,

again,

again.

Failed words have become nothing but a serendipitous CPR.

Ribcage swells, balloons,

and a pregnancy moves into trimester.

Elastic and pink, smelling of burnt rubber -

my muscles frenetic and running on recycled CO2.

Buoyancy of flesh and fat and aggravated lungs.

Equilibrium is struck against the ethos;

the gravity of grief.

Floating, half rooted — half flying — half dying.

Keep your chin up,

if only to keep from swallowing the endless salty flow.

Eyes to the sky,

if only to see that the sky still a ceiling.

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