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Danley Romero

That Kind of Breath


that happens when I’m opening

my arms, then closing

myself around you, feeling

like an accordion.

The breathing is a way

to sing; it’s a rushing up,

it’s a pressing out,

like I’m full of helium—

head a dizzied melody—like,

I could float away now,

except my feet today

are solid things, planted,

firmly, right where I left them.


A willow shakes in a storm as if

in a summer breeze. And vice



I can shift my weight

from side to side. You

can do this, too,

and we can do it together,

call it dancing.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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