The lungs are not two large balloons.
Spongy bronchus branches stretch down and
hold clustered pockets of air like fruit hidden
in our core, flavored with each inhale whether
mountain or wildfire or assassin. Each breath is
an exchange. Out. In. Useless for useful. A bargain
struck in collective exhale by earth’s first life. A deal
fragile as any tree in a harvester’s blades. Tenuous
as a trachea. Infection grew my mom’s lungs darker
daily, until they were only shadows, her pink and
flexing organs swapped for construction paper
cutouts barely twitching in the wind.
The left lung is somewhat smaller than the right.
Space must be made for the heart.
