by LUNA Rey Hall
I inhale & my lungs welcome
with their branches, as they do
& the airways squeeze
then release & look,
I just painted a whole
living room wall & my vision
is blurry & I’m starting to get itchy
in my chest & I think there’s too much
dead space rattling inside me
& I shake when
I place the paint brush
down & when my mother calls me
& asks if I need help,
I tell her & there’s a cardinal
on the windowsill, it’s tilted, beady
& it stares in & in & could there be
fluid in between my pleura
& the windows aren’t open
& I’ve been at it for hours,
since the morning when my lungs
were summer trees, full green
& I feel like you aren’t listening
& the branches have these tiny, little
pink buds & they engulfed
& press in on themselves,
little fists of air
& this damn cardinal
keeps strutting by the window
& please listen to me, my chest
feels so weird, did I mention the itch
& we have to do another coat
& you just said it sounded like a wheeze
& you know it’s been dry
& that cardinal hears me, look at it
The way it rolls over, exposed
& have you been listening,
have you been listening?
Luna Rey Hall, born & raised near the Twin Cities, holds an MFA from Pacific University. Their debut collection loudest when startled will be published by YesYes Books in 2020. Their poems have appeared in The Florida Review, Moon City Review, Atlanta Review & Raleigh Review, among others. They currently live in St. Paul, MN.