Two plant pots containing my breasts,
the good one and the bad,
rest beneath my aching ribs as I attempt
to breathe gentle like they tell me,
and not as my mind advises,
in gulps of bucking panic.
I can't do this - yes you can,
and down the tube I go. Feel the darkness
pressing in around my down-faced prone.
Halt breath until I'm still again -
snot dripping - nothing
I can do but sniff, or let it flow. Half an hour
in this buzzing, chugging craft is but a lifetime
when the only comfort is the bulb
I hold in my left Palm.
I wonder what happens if I squeeze it,
will they really come?
30 minutes later, I'm out of there - filled with uncertainty and a residue of dye.