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,
all hair and gills, suffocating
in plain daylight.