by Paula J. Lambert
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| Source: The New York Times |
Really, it’s just the claggy kind of snot struggling
to decide if it wants to stay low in your chest—
where your heart beats and every breath passes
through—or if, rising, clinging to the last breath,
it has the strength to finally release itself
to the world. We know by now what can travel
on the tiny particles of our gasping exhalations:
disease, devotion, the promise that death is no end.
We might wish otherwise, drifting in and out
of these strange dreams of drowning. We know
what happened in Nepal, North Carolina, Texas.
We all might be called mystics when, prone,
our bodies wrestle with desire, each wobble of faith
in our resolve to go on a little death of its own.
Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has published eleven collections of poetry including Terms of Venery, Revised (Sheila-Na-Gig 2025) and Sinkhole (Bottlecap 2025). Her work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.
