Copper Lung

The air is sharp enough to peel the skin

back from the throat with every ragged pull.

I bit my lip to keep the winter in

until the iron taste was thick and full.

It’s copper on the tongue, a hot, wet wire,

while steam is rising off my soaking shirt.

My lungs are full of grey and smoldering fire

and every joint is singing with the dirt.

I stopped beside a truck to catch my breath,

watching the white clouds vanish in the cold.

It’s a tiny, salty rehearsal for a death,

or just a way of proving I’m not old.