It Begins in the Middle (Day 12)

It begins
in the middle, a burning
and a shutting out
of light, without smoke.
The language is
foreign, yet it
muddies and makes
itself a nuisance
an indifferent ice
of interference, looping
through mind and mouth.
That stagger, drunken
weaving on
ironclad legs, stiff,
unbendable.
The breath goes
in horizontally,
an odalisque, or a body
on a marble slab.
The breath goes
out, a shushing trail.
The breath goes
in, day slides
into night in a slick shallow
motion, like that
of an uncooked egg
slipping off
a spoon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six