Tonight's Poet Corner: Lungs

Lungs
by Belinda Roddie

I lie in bed at night, and I
am thankful for a great many things.
However, I take for granted the
mighty pouches of life stored
behind my ribs, cycling air to make
it nourishing. My blood is warmed
to the melody of oxygen.
I can breathe.

I do not have to take my chances
with a canister. I do not have to
stop walking to ease the burn
in my chest. I do not have to fear
a chokehold, for many reasons. I
am allowed to breathe. I am
allowed to live.

But he can't breathe. He can't breathe.
He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
He can't breathe. He can't breathe.
He can't breathe. He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

How many times did he have to
gasp it to be spared? And how many
times would I have had to say it before
precious air returned to me, and my
lungs cooperated, and the man
in blue apologized? We are different,

the dead and I - I get to lie in bed at night,
thankful for a great many things. He,
on the other hand, gets to sleep six
feet below, no inhaler to assist him now,
no children to hug and kiss good night,
No justice. No trial.
No breath.

In Memory Of Eric Garner