Cheyne-Stokes Breaths
Back and forth
an atmosphere
around your head.
Emotions rise,
emotions fall.
You feel inside
for what you seek,
you play it like
a symphony
where words will slip
into the slots.
A rhythmic sound
of something you
have never learned.
She’s walking fast,
she’s talking fast,
you’re doing what
you always did.
She’s walking slow,
she’s talking slow,
you’re doing what
you ought to do.
But something’s wrong.
You lift the wreath,
the dead bouquet.
You are a wreck,
each petal pulled
in memory of
her final thought:
then fast, then slow
then fast
then slow
then.
Susan Wilson
