Bookcase — by Judith Staff 

Many times a day
My lungs are crying
Panic-laden words:
“I can’t breathe.”
“I CAN’T breathe.”
“I. Can’t. BREATHE.”
They reverberate
Over the clattering
Of my thoughts
“icantbreathe”.
In theory, I can.
Oxygen sneaks in
But it’s a drama
I take a breath
Not enough air
Gasp again
Still a deficit
A longer one
But no avail
Because each time
The breath stops
Unable to continue
When it reaches
That same spot
Where
The invisible bookcase is crushing my chest.