monday poem #188: Margaret Young, "Cough"
Cough
Small beast in my chest all week, dry paws
grasping trachea, furred tail
curved through the smaller tubes. I feed it
sweet liquid from brown bottles and it sighs,
folds up and sleeps a while.
I can hear it breathing behind me,
one beat late. When it wakes
it wants to talk and won't take no.
I bow gently, cup my hands
to hear. Its voice is thick, salty and old.
It says one word over and over
in a language I've forgotten, leaving a taste
of gray stone on my tongue.
- Margaret Young
from Willow from the Willow
Small beast in my chest all week, dry paws
grasping trachea, furred tail
curved through the smaller tubes. I feed it
sweet liquid from brown bottles and it sighs,
folds up and sleeps a while.
I can hear it breathing behind me,
one beat late. When it wakes
it wants to talk and won't take no.
I bow gently, cup my hands
to hear. Its voice is thick, salty and old.
It says one word over and over
in a language I've forgotten, leaving a taste
of gray stone on my tongue.
- Margaret Young
from Willow from the Willow