Did you know
the number thirty-seven
is the numerical
value of "I
AM" in Hebrew?
37 aching, 37 drowning,
37 lamenting how clumsy 37.
Sylvia Plath once took a deep breath
and listened to her heart,
and it sounded like,
"37. 37. 37."
What happens when my heart stops?
37 not, I guess.
37 disoriented and lonely,
and 37 losing consciousness
fast. How can you sit there
as though I weren't?
You're not even speaking.
All I want
is for you to say something.
All I want
is air, your sweet breath in my lungs.

(If you never said anything,
I'd open my mouth
and water would rush in,
and the last of my breath,
well.
It would rush
from the confines
of my mouth,
carrying words--
and, indeed,
even my breath adores you;
not much about me can resist.
I would drown
surrounded by the questions
I can't bring myself to ask.
37 confused. 37 a little weird.
37 bursting with questions for you.
37 having trouble looking at you.
Can you feel
the absence of my eyes?
Can you tell
37 fighting this flood?)