Neither swallowed nor spat

by David Ackley


Listen  to your body said our yogurt teacher.

Make that yoga, but clearly I failed

with a plug in my throat and choking,

yielding to the soothing words it was nothing

and left the white-coated soother, choking and

chuckling at the temerity to think dying. It was nothing.


But what if it was that exactly,  long overdue,

having fallen from trees spun out on ice

intensive care at twelve stabbed darted shot

at and missed shit at and hit innummerably.


It was nothing. What if it was something.

The long dark night of the soul neither 

swallowed nor spat plugged just below the back

of the tongue, argues validity

until in the morning light you once more

cough it up and get back to life.