We breathe.
You can’t hear it.
It’s called eupnea.
The silence of breath.
The sound of lungs
at peace.
Except for Kyle.
His pleural apical scarring.
He spells it plural,
as if the scarring
couldn’t be singular,
but owns the lungs.
And he spells it as scaring
sometimes too,
filling out
the V.A. paperwork
like that,
as if there’s fear
in this eternal
sick call
and, oh, there is.
I know.
I do it too.
I know it too.
And I work
to control
my sounds,
the smoke
decades ago
that came in,
formed a semi-
circle
in my chest
and thoughts,
stayed
forever.
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