Oyster Boy Review 09  
  May 1998
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» Levee 67


Wheeze My Name

Paul Dilsaver

She spazzed my bronchus,
that voluminous respiratory therapist
with her mammoth
pulmonary capacities.

Hyperventilate I would
when she stuck her lungs
in my face.
And to watch her stretch
could make me choke,
light up my bronchial tree
like Christmas.

The rush of air through trachea
when she maneuvered her thorax
into a room
was a truly inspirational sound.
My own lobes lubricated
at the sight of her heaving nametag.

Now she is gone,
exhaled from my life,
exhausted from the picture.
Like a reformed smoker,
I cannot lose the cough.