SWWIM sustains and celebrates women poets by connecting creatives across generations and by curating a living archive of contemporary poetry, while solidifying Miami as a nexus for the literary arts.
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.
Carrie Vaughn is a poet and middle school science teacher. She received her MFA in poetry from Oregon State University. She currently lives in Baltimore, MD with her partner and their musclebeast mutt. Her work has been published in Entropy and Grist.
