Air, Locked

 To break the window glass, to merge air and air
― Cynthia MacDonald “The Triborough Bridge a Crown for his Head”


Airy hands locked in challenge, a wealth of worries wrung from the embrace. Breath 
exhaled among ministrations of soothing hands touched to brows. Breath watched 
and waited for.

A mingling as when, long ago, I imagined tears wet on water windows. A singular mix of 
stale air / breathless / last breath air with outside air. A breath of fresh —

of soot or dank humidity, catching a —

stopped by musty rankness, long and lonesome breath in and out. We’re exhorted to 
exchange old for new, bad air for good, but which is which?

Air and air, ever again: the dizzying mountain oxygen, an air chamber to equalize 
pressure, let them breathe as they come to. My gasp as I enter the airlock. The mixture a 
mélange, sullen, no high-minded / hand-shake merger.

Air and air, break window glass. The stab of breath.