September, Riverside Park: ran out of breath, 

I called my dad, who told me it was all in my head, how as a 

pilot he never feels that way anymore because he can’t, it would 

put a stop to spacious nights of landing in a pool of stars.  

Looking at the Hudson River, I could breathe easy, sampled 

the breath of men. That was the freedom granted, all 

because I believed in him. I am too often a woman lying 

safe in bed while dreaming of failed teaching lessons, war, and 

death at sea, running away and running out of breath. My voice  

often fails me in a room. Oh, to yell under the sea, or in a 

restaurant booth. Then to wake next to a man who is  

earning glory in space, or in a spaghetti Western.  

That night I had called my father, I fought my way through  

the busy street to my white sheets where I loved sinking.