Asthma In Summer

The oppressive night
like a blanket. Layers
of wetness on
my bronchial tubes, my
limbs; my
husband’s body
on top of me. I
want to walk out, to the bay,
the ocean, to a
mountain, to a place of
stars.
In my dream,
men keep women’s
selves,
women’s souls, in
little jars along
the mantel, and it makes it so
much easier. Then
the women hold the broom,
the fork, but
not the knife. At Kokoro,
the Japanese chef
tosses it in the air—and
catches it.
My children.
The sticking point.
I remember their
babyhoods in this little
house. Each cried to
be let into my bed. Tonight,
the older one came
to sleep with me. Her
sunburn hurt. I held
her hand, then gripped
my rosary, praying.
How will I sleep? Wanting
to walk out
as I do, the dinners,
the nights out,
the purple pedicure. These will
prevent the questions.

Where does the energy
come from? The
longest earthworm, five feet, in
Australia, may be
energized by alluvial ooze. But
who knows how long
it languishes under there
waiting for a
sea change, a change in
the upper weather
so it can come out, move
under the sky? A
woman found it. She dug
for a year. She
knew it was down
there.
Dinners, lunches,
clothes, cappuccinos. Search
if you want, but don’t
find it. … I gasp for air. I
search for that
hard, bright thing at
night. Walking
the dog, I see my stooped
shadow in the
streetlight—so
like my father’s.
Or jogging
in daylight—the
hat, the lurching legs. I drive
up to a gas station—
what a relief, a
long blue sign with
white letters, “Self”—available
at the pumps. Little
selves, little yellow-winged
souls, fly around, close
enough to pull from
the air. I rest
there, holding the nozzle,
guiding it into
the gas tank, the hole.