The Ride

In the passing buzz
there is actual clarity of mind and
momentary confidence of spirit.

When the tasks are multitudinous
and the work is near and dear,
there is space to beam brightly and breathe.

When there is quiet or
change or anticipatory
failure, then the thoughts spin and thump.

The chest tightens and
the unattended eyelids flutter but
the most excruciating is the pulsing pound.

The blurring in and out of
conscious thought, being
ridden up and down

up and down the
never ending hallucinogenic
mountain range of utter panic.

The mountains get higher as
it becomes increasingly impossible
to take in air.

Each breath really feels like
the last and you absolutely, well,
sometimes, maybe, wish it was.

A small nine-year-old girl left at home alone
with the flu once called her mother
crying and saying, "goodbye, before I die."

That was one of the first times the
mountains made a visit and the blood
nearly pounded out of her eyes, her head.

But it doesn't matter how it feels
because the body is a survivor and
fights for that next breath

it keeps on gasping and regulating
and existing and then,
without any perceptible change

she gets up and goes.
It does not matter to where,
but the feet finally move

on flat, solid, safe ground.