An Iron Lung’s Silver Lining


The Organ Box palpitated
Like an iron lung. Guiding sky
Through its minor cut,

Whistling while it worked-
Mocking the caterwaul
Of rusted hinges.

I thought about its connotations
Without a host
An organ is useless

And inside the Box
It rotted without delay
But it’d rot inside a host too.

(steal a kiss and it’s mashing tissue
(steal a lung and it’s defiantly organic

Curiosity transposed into anxious fervor.

I opened the cut
To stop the whistle

And the whistle became a scream.

I countered the modulation
By wailing like an infant

I was young
And I was accepted.

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