From the Fishouse

(for Toi)

you don’t. let hurt and air sting the nostrils,
allow bitter breath to trouble taste, and when you have

closed off from the rest of the world because
hurt hurts; when you have

sucked in as much as you can --- trust.
your throat can bear the burn completely

let it out. let words wash, each time,
and feel the twinge

becoming breath sung through the box of the voice. muting
the cries, muting the screams. and as the draw continues,

continue to be touched--and open.
and what needs to be done is clear:

move to the wind pipe and be careful of the vulnerability
of your pull the slow burn of hurt exact. exposed. budding

let me hold you close at night whisper
sweet nothing sweet nothing

into the roots of your lungs. pull them out if you need to. pull
them out if you want. let hurt occupy most of the space

and when the breathing need of hurt blows
through the gullet of the heart,

in the lungs where it collapses the ache--- ache. let hurt exchange blows
with hurt and hold, let the pain claw at the cavern,

the chest, press my hand to your heart.

inhale it. expand.

and at the height of distress, relax

push air out of the body, with it the waste.