Claustrophobia of Flesh

My dying cat fights for breath; I recognize 
the pawing at air, the wild eyes. 
I have known that claustrophobia of flesh.

The buzz of dental drill. Grocery lines. The wild 
bangle-blizzard of a migraine aura. No way 
out but through. 

A hoarfrosted windshield on a February morning—
in fact, the entire month of February. 
The puddling of skin on skull 

and armbags of middle age. How stark 
and deep the drive to ditch these buckled bones! 
Always I’ve been kicking at the walls. 

In fifth grade it was maturation night, 
in the tater-totted lunchroom, girls 
and mothers thigh-to-thigh on mini picnic table benches: 

hour of fret and sweat. My whole life since,
I’ve been limping out of that room 
clutching a sample bag in disbelief. 

Four times, I squeezed myself 
through a long shrinking tunnel of time-
less body and bodiless time to discover I

had brought forth something never seen before in the world, 
a new body, flesh of my flesh 
that gradually moved away, leaving me

dregs. Leaving me
looking for something else to do with myself. 
This old body, drag-weight of anchor 

tangled in reeds—or chrysalis? Wait.
Wait.

Darlene Young is the author of three poetry collections (Count Me In, Signature 2024; Here, BCC Press 2023; and Homespun and Angel Feathers, BCC, 2019). A recipient of the Smith-Pettit Foundation Award for Outstanding Contribution to Mormon Letters, she teaches writing at Brigham Young University and has served as poetry editor for Dialogue and Segullah journals. Her work has been noted in Best American Essays and nominated for Pushcart Prizes. She lives in South Jordan, Utah.