Like in 7th grade when David Myers
held in a sneeze until his left lung collapsed;
the oil slick of his trapped irritation

spilled across his esophagus, and his alveoli,
like fleeing fall geese, pumped clogged feathers,
inky shafts whistling a wheeze-beat, slapping

against greasy black overflow that wrapped
through the estuary of his chest, warped
bull kelp, wound around scales of fish,

gunked fins, finished bodies into unscavengeable rot
not fit for feed. Just like that, what I kept
to myself.