Hello Friends,
One of the wonderful things about poetry is that it can quickly and intensely give us glimpses into what it's like to be someone who grew up differently than we did, who thinks differently than we do, or who even breathes differently than we do.
Today's poem by Mark O'Brien is from his collection The Man in the Iron Lung (1997).
I hope you enjoy.
Ellen
P.S. A stevedore is someone who unloads cargo from ships — a dockworker or a longshoreman.
Grasping for straws is easier;
You can see the straws.
"This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,"
Presses down upon me
At fifteen pounds per square inch,
A dense, heavy, blue-glowing ocean,
Supporting the weight of condors
That swim its churning currents.
All I get is a thin stream of it,
A finger's width of the rope that ties me to life
As I labor like a stevedore to keep the connection.
Water wouldn't be so circumspect;
Water would crash in like a drunken sailor,
But air is prissy and genteel,
Teasing me with its nearness and pervading immensity.
The vast, circumambient atmosphere
Allows me but ninety cubic centimeters
Of its billions of gallons and miles of sky.
I inhale it anyway,
Knowing that it will hurt
In the weary ends of my crumpled paper bag lungs.
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