Motion Makes Us Cough Poem by Terese Svoboda

Emotion is more electrical,
our foot caught on the cord,
the blink we have to take.

Don't explain, says the little bird.
Don't tell who we are either.
Up and down the tarmac

fly guns in crates like sausages,
links of what we think we need.
Not me, not me,

chirps the chirper. But
there we are, yelling again,
or crying, or frying—

blinking. Manmade
fritz lies
behind muscle and even

brain. Why, that smile,
while not shocking, belies
emotion's grounding: sic,

read as written, if we can,
with these dark plugs out.
We will still cough.