Andrew Frolish
Breathing
The morning taste was acid
like dead skin and old paper,
like the stale attic
where I found the box years ago
(just yesterday).
As the light thinned out -
a time of fool’s gold leaf -
the vodka flowed on
and the orange receded
until it was neat.
In those hours you came in and out
of the box, taken in and expelled
with my breathing.
Each breath I took
cloaked my throat with dust,
making it even harder to say
the words I avoided in the days
when I breathed easily.
Page(s) 15
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