the morning we woke up without lungs

was long & humid. we did not ask 
where they went though i imagined 
all our lungs becoming the wings 
of a future animal. how can i describe
the absence of an organ? it was like 
cutting off all your hair only worse--
like knowing no hair would ever grow back.
we gasped & looked for objects to replace them.
many people rummaged in draws 
for birthday ballons 
& others found plastic bags to get through 
the day. these would not last & these people
would need to find something else.
a hole in a lung feels like a trap door.
you fall & fall until you fix the tear
or replace the lungs entirely.
a common question on first dates is
"what do you use for lungs?" one girl
i got coffee with used her father's bag pipes.
each breath had music in it. i did not
want to reveal my lungs to her 
which she found odd. it seemed to intimate
in the moment but i regret not showing her.
if i could rewind i would open my mout wide 
& tell her to peer inside to see
my lungs made of mason jars. i always wanted
more significant lungs but i could never
settle on something new. i tried bowls
but they don't hold air. 
i tried a jewerly box but i was always
out of breath. i practice inhaling
on the floor of my bedroom. i remember 
what the membranes felt like when our lungs
were flesh. like doors opening 
& opening over & over. like windows 
with no glass or curtains. we lived 
so carelessly. our lungs are somewhere else.
sometimes i seem them all 
in a great machine of air, then a sun made of lungs. 
i want to hold someone's hand 
& have them know everything about me. 
it is so hard to introduce a body 
you do not know. where does anyone begin? 
i am a man in a fleeting body. my lungs are made
jars that used to store grape jelly.
that is all i know for now. a balloon 
rises above the town & i wonder whose air 
it used to house.