Duty

The downstairs den glows with late-night TV.
My mother settles into Doctor Zhivago
after a day of caring for the six of us.

When I walk in with my lungs on fire
asthma clenches them into rattle and wheeze.
The room is full of air, air stretches through the house

and outside, above other houses
and as far as the moon.
But the right-in-front-of-me air wants

nothing to do with me.
And I see in my mother’s expression
both sympathy and disappointment.

When air doesn’t cooperate,
she leads me into the small bathroom,
moves the rug so I don’t sit on cold tile,

and turns the squeaky knob for Hot all the way
to the right. Steam rises, misting the mirror first,
then clouds take the toilet, and soon

I am drenched in warm fog,
tracing water droplets with my finger
as they run jagged down the wall,

my other hand in my mother’s hand.
In time, a strong breath pries open my lungs.
She gives me a squeeze, and then lets go.