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The Whistle in My Lung

A poem

Published on:
October 16, 2017
Read time:
1 min.
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I come to you,
Open wound
And a hole in my side.

See my lung?
It’s leaking air.
I can feel it whistle.

But do sit with me
As I whistle
And cry
Put your hand in my side.


You ask what I’ve done
To deserve
Such a sorrow.

Nothing, I
Swear.

I only breathed my first
And never stopped.

Your parents then,
You insist.
What have they done.

Nothing, I
Swear.

I wince
And squirm
And sigh
And whistle.

Answers
Answers must be had.
This whistle is
Unacceptable,
You say.

I pull my knees
To my chest
And squeeze
the whistle
to a hiss.

I was born—
the hole in my side—
the whistle in my lung.

I sing,
And dance,
And pray,
And whistle.

I was born
this way.
I whistle.
I say.
But the wound,
The wound is
From you.

Katie Fisher
Katie Fisher works as a graphic designer, writer, and visual artist. As a farm kid from the Great Plains, she learned to run wild with the wind and live in the trees. Check out her visual work at katiefisher.us or follow her on Twitter @katiefisher_km.

Cover image by Katie Fisher.

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