The Whistle in My Lung

I come to you,
Open wound
And a hole in my side.

See my lung?
It’s leaking air.
I can feel it whistle.

But do sit with me
As I whistle
And cry
Put your hand in my side.

You ask what I’ve done
To deserve
Such a sorrow.

Nothing, I
Swear.

I only breathed my first
And never stopped.

Your parents then,
You insist.
What have they done.

Nothing, I
Swear.

I wince
And squirm
And sigh
And whistle.

Answers
Answers must be had.
This whistle is
Unacceptable,
You say.

I pull my knees
To my chest
And squeeze
the whistle
to a hiss.

I was born—
the hole in my side—
the whistle in my lung.

I sing,
And dance,
And pray,
And whistle.

I was born
this way.
I whistle.
I say.
But the wound,
The wound is
From you.