A Hiccup in Time

I swallowed a hiccup.

And, I have to tell you that neither of us was too happy about the situation.

You see, that little blundering pustule of compressed, oxygenated,

bubble-bop sans hydrogen air ricocheted down the wrong pipe

and wallowed in the misery of a chainsaw chest,

trying to yelp and growl and push out the edges of the ribcage,

unable to expand from the recesses of archaic interlaid stitches of tense times

bound to the brachials of a taunted soul.

The confused hiccup stared at me through my bare breast reflection in the mirror,

turning red, then purple, then green, then blue,

holding its breath as if on exhale,

it might manage to pop its way straight out my sternum

or at least back up to the windpipe,

where it would feel more at home.

But no, the hiccup was trapped,

willow bark the cascade running

no no Monsieur Rabbit shock the tree branch stuck

to the quicksand catechism

of concave innards and petulant blood vessels.

It was trappedÉ. yep, trapped.

Now, I have nothing against hiccups, really I don't.

I can always hold my breath,

or drink water upside down,

or let something scare the crap out of me to get rid of them.

But this little sucker, well, he refused to budge.

So, I decided to strap on my bra,

snuggle him in for the ride,

and move on with my day.

And, for a while, we got along just fine.

We had long engaging conversations in the car,

listened to Eric Clapton, Coldplay and NPR,

and strolled along the starlit beach

as the last traces of surround sun broke

over the purple white waves of eve.

We silenced in the yoga

and blew out the hip sway salsa

and wept at Casablanca,

my tears streaming down to meet the hiccup's own puddle

at the soft spot above my belly button.

And then, one Sunday morn,

I awoke without that fluttering feeling between my bones,

sensing only a cool rush of air.

I was light but hollow,

whole but broken,

and I rope swinged across the carriage drawn horse of a pale lit room

to view my desert reflection.

I lifted the damaged nightshirt to reveal a small black hole,

smack between my breasts,

the frayed edges of pale skin still swaying in and out with each pass of air.

A lull leapt into my heart,

and I knew the hiccup was gone forever.

I sighed and sauntered toward the kitchen,

where the hiccup left a note

on the dry erase board of the refrigerator door.

"Sorry to leave you, babe," he wrote.

"I'm just not ready to breath as deeply as I do with you."