Inherited Breath

Cold press of stethoscope,

a moment caught between my ribs.

The doctor’s voice, flat and clinical:

"It runs in your family."

A cough breaks—rattling, stubborn,

like an old engine coughing up rust.

Mother had it too,

that slow decay

passed down in breathless gulps.

I taste the stale air

of history lodged beneath skin,

a debt measured in every wheeze,

a trait that binds me

inhaled, exhaled,

a silent passenger on every breath.

I try to outrun it,

but the cough pulls me back,

a shadow in the room,

persistent and too close.