BREATHING Poem by Mario Petrucci

(Chernobyl, 1986)

They had to teach me
from scratch. Teach me

to breathe. As though
I had fallen out of space or

up from water and breath
was labour - each breath

a pang to draw me back
from the brink. In. Out. In

this world life is indifferent.
You must will it in. Will it

out. I look at my son -
those white cheeks that

tight frown and
I wonder how I can

breathe. He says - Mama
when you go to sleep to-

night please don't forget to
breathe. Please. He is

not allowed to run. Or
jump. Like that boy who

hanged himself with a
belt. I watch him. And he

watches me - when I doze
on the red sofa he rests a

hand to check the rise and
fall of my chest. Tells me he

will teach me in his dreams -
will teach me to breathe if

I teach him how to fly. If
you go with Grandpa he

says - will you be able to
breathe? He says this and

his cheeks run wet and
he runs short of breath so

we sit once again to
teach each other how -

deep and slow. We are
flying I tell him. We are

breathing he replies.