Lungs by Julia Gibson

Poet: Julia Gibson Poem title: Lungs Poem: The grape hyacinths came up Bells hanging from the central stem not only by traumas blunt — Or the rot that forms across the tissue of all of us Only when placed in my hands The anatomist recognized my fascination He knew the body after life, Still reverent, day after day, breathing in he destroyed the body so as to know it, I only begin to understand Purple alveoli ascending the soil I am too close to my life at having once been born, budded to much remember childhood's wonder — Breaths are now stilled in us unseen even as we mourn Please accept my body if only to remember that we are blessed the same week as the old friend died, the job lost. can be crushed, or collapsed, but fine, like frost. a black and delicate bloom who breathe haze between towers. did they become real to me. with lungs glistening, even in death. extant relic of an intimate history. formaldehyde, the antifreeze of decay, painting what we do not want to glimpse. the beauty of growing. are distant enough to discern. to feel that rush of awe off from another, now too grown not grown enough to regret forgetting. not yet after death, lungs alone in our homes. painting the annuals in the park enough to be growing still. End of poem. Credits: Copyright © Julia Gibson Julia Gibson is a multidisciplinary thinker, creator, and problem solver aspiring to contribute to a more understanding and compassionate world. After studies in violin performance at Manhattan School of Music, she completed a BA in Cognitive Science at Brown University, and an MSc in mathematics at McMaster University. She now works both as a poet and an aerospace engineer in Toronto. A supporter of pluralism and free speech, she is on the production team for Shab-e She’r, Toronto’s bravest and most diverse poetry series. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Two Doors, was published in 2019.