the first time i am hospitalized,

i am fifteen with the first day of school looming    

four sunrises over.    

the doctors say it’s my lungs:

     they aren’t working right.    

 pneumonia.

    a breathing rate too high to ignore.

the x-ray could’ve been taken straight

out of a textbook.   

     how long had it been gathering

a small army in my left lobe

preparing

for an open rebellion,

   turning my own against me?

sleep avoids me. fevers do not.

i vomit.

     and then i cry.

what is there left of mine?   

i cannot even breathe fully with every cell of my body before

stopping because i can’t     i can’t

i can’t

  these lungs are not mine—weak and trembling and struggling,

     the coughs bubbling from inside

like lava and debris

              exploding out from an old and worn volcano.

mine were wide    and open    and giving

fighters,   sustainers,     listeners

    everything i once took for granted.

they used to exhale music and

    make notes fly up and down

in dizzying, yet
    dazzling cascades.

i am waiting for myself to return.

    i am waiting for my lungs to clear,

    for them to open up, for them to breathe again.

and when they breathe, i will breathe.

it will be soft.

     something steady.     flowing.

a familiar, long-lost rhythm.

in.

out.

in.

out.

in.

out.