—

Beat. Break. Beat. Break.

—

Is there a monitor of these movements

                that shift beneath the skin? A rummaging

within the ribs. I hear a broken bird

                beating against the bars of its cage,

broken.

–

All organs and organisms need oxygen and optimism.

—

Panic. Breathe. Panic. Breathe.

—

I shift within skin whose movements

                I cannot monitor. I have mounded

matters into metal I cannot master. Alchemist

                is not altruist. I can be an organ

of oxygen

–

but cannot count on optimism.

–

Breathe and so fill my lungs, air entering,

                blood flowing through arteries, the rising

and falling, the beating and beating

                and for every beat; a break, for each breath of air;

a drowning.

–

A bird was not born to fly under water.

—

Beat. Break. Beat. Break.

—

Medical is not the same as mental but mental

is now being measured out by medicinal.

—

Run. Rest. Run. Rest.

—

Running from the nest, the rest, the rest of me,

                    the mess that has been left in place

of all the rest that has left.

–

What has been left?

–

I stop in the park and watch the rest, watch a bird

                break from perch, bold and brave, unfold

against the force, feathers in flight, feathers in fight,

                winded in the chest. Pushed back. Pushing forward.

Pushed back.

—

Beat. Back. Beat. Back.

—

I cannot handle heights, I have felt too much

                the fall, my feathers are for fancy now.

I am done with flying. I am digging, deep

                within the ground, deep within the body.

–

I will pull out every root

till I pluck the panic

and catch a breath again that I can breathe.

—

Pull. Panic. Pull. Harder.

—

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly