Breathless

You are taking short, asphyxiating breaths.

There is no air in you. I talk softly, aspirate you.

Your lungs are full of what you have not said.

You are not breathing. This place is anaerobic.

I lance myself. My blood is thick and slowly saturates our clothes.

There are too many others here.

I am mystified and cauterize my wound against your rage.

Sanguine, breathless now we sleep.

Bill Schubart, Fall 1991