Valsalva Maneuver

There is an ear growing in my throat,

which is to say, all my exhales taste

like salt and I’m hearing things— 

bum ba-dum ba-dum, bum ba-dum—  

I only pause to consider whether pal-

pitation may indicate arrhythmia. Far

beyond benign, the flaw is a figment; 

then again, the safety is, too. She reaches 

with cold hands, but I can’t feel her 

feeling the spot where a jaw cracks— 

(bronchospasm) (albuterol as needed) 

(otitis media) (augmentin twice a day)—

a simple enough thing to say, so I wait 

and I take my pills and I lick my yogurt 

from its spoon. I only pause to consider 

the walnut and the threats its spits at 

my broken butterfly gland like sunflower 

seeds. With the lights out, I tip-

toe into the midnight of my children’s 

bedroom and I beg them to remember me 

even while they’re sleeping. Here I am, still 

trying to forget the way you had a stomach ache

and died (swollen) on a Wednesday— 

(bum) (ba-dum) (ba-dum)— 

I tend a phrenic tally of how frequently 

my ears pop as if it were a date palm. 

Sound muffled, I shudder in the moon dark

and I count apparitions like sheep.

About the Author

Hannah M. Matzecki is a writer and mother. A Best of the Net nominee, her poetry has appeared in Rust & Moth, Denver Quarterly, and Gulf Stream Magazine. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Kitchen Table Quarterly. She hopes you get yourself a little treat today. She thinks you deserve it.