art apropos

Hold your breath, they said,
and you'll be safe.
Just make sure, not a whiff escapes.

And so we did.
We held our breath
as the streets went empty,
and the skies cleared,
and the people said,
it must be better. Isn’t it better?
The air is cleaner than I've ever seen
and my lungs ache to drink of it.
Please, just one small sip.

But they shook their heads no,
and raised a crooked finger to their lips.
Hold your breath, they said.

And so we did.
We pulled the shutters down
on our mind-windows,
for surely darkness made it better?
The not-knowing what went on outside,
the not-feeling the sweet burn
of the noon sun on my shoulder,
the not-smelling the fresh-cut grass
that always made me sneeze,
for even that would be a rebellion,
an explosion I want to feel.
But what is it to feel?

No, it's loud, too loud.
I feel their warning eyes,
read their ashen lips that whisper,
Hold your breath!

And I want to.
Do I want to? I must.
I feel responsible, for gently
leading twilight into blissful night.
It depends on me.
I've never felt more powerful.
But it's funny what that does to you.
I feel glacial.
As if my paws have taken root,
and spread out like a Great banyan,
but below isn't enlightenment,
just shelter.

I cannot hold my breath, I scream. 
I cannot see their faces neither.
It's dark, too dark.
But suddenly a weight pulls me under
       and then I feel.
I feel white panic.
      I feel a hand on my back.
               Or is it a knee?

“Mama, mama,
I can’t breathe. 
I can’t breathe. 
I can’t breathe.”