Asthma

I can still remember

the muzzle on my face pumping chemical fog

that tasted like cool plastic,

sweet sterile relief.

Bronchodilator, it was called:

and I could imagine my little air-chambers blooming like

orchids, coaxed open by that cool fog-breath

if I could just be patient.

And I was, my tiny feet dangling over the edge

of the kitchen counter, counting breaths -

so patient, like you taught me

as you brushed my golden hair, singing and soothing.

Back then, I was too young to understand:

Why can’t I breathe? Why can’t I

tell you how my breathing has always been different,

a song of my own with long-forgotten words

that whisper to me still, lung-swells

carrying me out to sea.

Even though I am no longer that sickly child,

the choking, panting child, the sweet little cared-for child;

I still lose my breath in the chaos of unfolding

and long for that soothing fog.

Even though the medicine was cold in my lungs

and the granite cold under my legs,

the memory is always warm.

So I breathe in deep.