The Breath

Painting by Bulanova Lyubov

The Breath


Fear lives in the breath,
in the wretched slaughterhouse
of the suburbs. I didn’t know
everyone hates the smell of their neighbors’
garden, the taste of charcoal fumes leeching
into rough kitchen walls, the sight
of tanned legs and white bellies, the scream.
Fear is mothered in the gut,
in the aching eyes of the Homeowners’
Association. Drown it with a cold one, but fear
can swim. The red clay on which we’ve built
our debt is waiting to slide.
If I feel blood in my veins,
I am not dead. The question is one of volume
and color. Also investment opportunities.

But the St. Vitus Dance of Despair is not
a viable exercise regimen unless
there’s a dress code,
the proper accoutrements,
an audience. You aren’t dying, champ;
you look too good
to die. Fear lives in the air,
so we surround ourselves
with stagnation. We breathe only dirt.
Our wretched burrows,
lined with fashionable filters.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Pressboard Press