Lips Lungs Tongue

I.

Lips, lungs, tongue.

Lips, lungs, tongue.

I’m smoking a cigarette outside the airport terminal,

when it raises its head, curls, then snakes

its way to my inner ear, settles there,

sounding soft and sanctimonious:

You make a living

from your lips,

your lungs,

and your tongue.

I hadn’t thought this thought this way before:

my lips

my lungs

my tongue.

Everything hinges on my body parts, moving,

working as involuntary gestures, or at least

the way I will them, and I’m smoking

a cigarette, outside the airport

in white, cold Michigan.

II.

If you can call it irony, it doesn’t escape

the mental recesses where my inner cynic resides,

but resounds there, reverbing,

like a childhood taunt that won’t shut up:

You’re stupid!

I’m smoking a cigarette, addicted

to dying in small fragments,

tiny fractions of time,

and the way I pay my rent

is to peddle my lips,

my lungs, and my tongue

to anyone with spare coins and a microphone.

I’ve tried other occupations, and they suck.

So honestly, I don’t even need a microphone.

Just the cash, and a room of my own

where I can smoke and write poetry.

Call me a hypocrite, but outside the airport terminal

I refused to drop the cigarette. Even as I thought

to quit the habit, I pulled a final drag

from the carcinogenic tip and lit

another one.

III.

Contrary to popular belief,

dying isn’t the opposite of living.

Killing is the opposite of living.

Whether you’re killing yourself or someone else,

whether you’re cutting an artery or

shooting the guts of an enemy,

you might be breathing,

but you ain’t living.

This isn’t an anti-killing poem, I promise.

I believe a little killing is necessary,

I believe in killing in moderation,

killing in self-defense,

killing to eat,

killing so I can sleep better at night, feeling safer,

because, while I personally am doing no killing,

killing is happening so I can live

without thinking about killing.

IV.

Lips.

Lungs.

Tongue.

Sometimes, I lie,

obscure the facts,

omit the details,

just so I can convey the truth. 

Sometimes, I stand in a crowd of strangers

and recite poetry with a kind of certainty and predictability

that suggests I’ve rehearsed every gesture,

memorized each line, honed

the presentation of poetic verse.

I want to give it to you:

Hard, then soft.

Hard, then soft.

V.

It’s a living—

a way of breathing by holding my breath,

a way of seething and out-talking death.

People have died for less than poetry.

And is poetry worth killing for?

Lips.

Lungs.

Tongue.

I’ve got to quit smoking.

© Ami Mattison

Flickr photo courtesy of Lanier67

For One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday