by Jack Newman
Independent as you were, a shame, a curse, you must endure,
Incarcerated, not without, a web within to steal your shouts,
And the very air you used to sigh, and laugh, and gasp, and yell, and cry,
And climb, and crawl, and work, and fly. Idiopathic? Don’t be shy–
You take and take and leave to die, rigid to the reason why,
Honeycombing ventilation, interstitial desperation,
Not sweet, just sticky, constrictive, quickly,
Running out of words to say,
And breath to give, and time to stay,
Sprinting, jogging, walking, slowing,
Stopping doesn’t end the choking,
Mercurial, you fibers wind,
To bind the lungs, to snare the mind,
When some lament scars on their skin,
Envisage them from deep within,
Inhale the world and hold it in,
Count the seconds, now do it again,
Now do it again, now do it again,
Don’t think of freedom only when,
It’s stolen from you, or him, or them,
Surrounding us, a ceaseless din,
Six hundred, or so, million of them,
But end they do, breath of life,
A twisting, gnawing, cellular knife,
Stuck within your own repair,
A trap they laid,
For the very air,
Once so delicate,
When first you cried,
Five lobes now hardened,
Still keep their pride, so–
Freely.
Inspire.
Before.
Restriction.
Only.
Stillness.
Is.
Sufficient.
-Inspired by those, like my grandfather, who live with chronic interstitial lung disease-
Jack Newman is a third-year medical student at the UTCOMLS.
