Jobs and Internships

Ads and Sponsorship


Page Color








Pair of Lungs, The Policeman, Revise

by | Sep 29, 2023

In a Tree, A Pair of Lungs Were Barely Breathing 

A boy climbed a tree 

to touch breathing lungs 

among the dark branches. 

They felt soft, wet, warm. 

Close by, he watched them 

inflate, deflate like one of 

of his own birthday balloons 

he often struggled to fill. 

At first, he fought off 

the urge to share the news 

with his folks. Then, relented, 

climbed down monkey-like, 

swinging on branches. 

He dashed home. “Lungs don’t  

grow in trees!” papa said. 

His mama rebuked the boy, 

“Don’t kid a kidder!”  

After crying, pleading, 

he lead them to the tree. 

Underneath, they peered up. 

The lungs, delicately pink, 

breathing, had vanished. 

“Where? Where are they?” 

he cried. His papa shouted, 

“Don’t lie to us again!” 

Mama slapped his mouth.

When the buds sprouted leaves,  

the boy returned to the tree,

hoping one more time 

to catch the unexplainable

but it never happened again. 

Why couldn’t I keep my big

mouth shut? If only I had  

never taken them there. 

Why did they have ruin it?

After a Gunfight Day, the Policeman 

swallowed his nerves. 

With the barrel of his gun, 

his wife smack him. Hard! 

“Serves you right, coward,”

she opined. Suddenly,  

topless dancers spun. 

dipped, smiling around 

his throbbing melon. 

Next, she kicked him 

in the nether regions. 

He cried out and fell. 

“Smile? How dare you!” 

she snarled. “The kids 

rely on you, buster. 

You want Molly to 

cry herself asleep, 

with stabbing hunger? 

You would. Wouldn’t you?”

 A vision of himself 

on fire, walking on 

on a river, singing 

swirled out of his 

aching, broken mind. 

“How dare you dream

while I stand here in a

walking nightmare!”

With his own nightstick, 

she furiously beat him.

Everything collapsed.

Inside darkness creeped. 

“How dare you go, leaving

me alone with these brats!

You selfish bastard!? 

Then, silence held him

in her arms, pressed him

close to her warm breasts. 

Her hair was fragrant,

brown eyes so tender,

he swam to the light.


The poet revises his face.  

He scrapes the hair off 

leaving tingling follicles. 

His nose—he makes smaller,  

then larger, then smaller,

nostrils left flaring. 

Why stop there? Why not slice

off those chipmunk cheeks.

Ah, yes, better. 

The eyes? Wrong color.  

Why not blue, no green

like his former wife’s. 

His teeth—that top gap

must go. Too yellow. 

Better bone white.  

Forehead creases, crow’s

feet clawing his right eye,

definitely gotta bounce. 

Now, in the mirror, 

who the hell is he? 

Is he someone he 

might stop to talk to, 

or someone to ignore? 

Poor devil, he can’t decide.