Hic
by Alexander Kwonji Rosenberg


For a second the breath
comes with a smack
and claws its way forward.
Lungs, pressed rib cage,
muscles peeling out
like confetti. Where is the exit door?
The epiglottis snaps a tissued petal
over clouded passageways and winds.
They say we come from tadpoles.
We, green and obscene,
hardly seeing,
all hair and gills, suffocating
in plain daylight.






Copyright 2022 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.