My surgeon friend, her hands so still

is showing me a sponge—

this is your diaphragm. It pulls air in.

When you’re young, when you’re drunk,

when you see the moon in the pines,

you pull in.

When you speak, when you lie,

when you say you don’t know,

you push out.

When you’re tired, when you’re shocked,

when someone you love is dying,

you pull in.

When you see the sun rising at the end of the street

in the tired morning, and end another vigil,

you push out.

When you’re standing on the street, waiting for the light,

and the one you’re with says, ‘We should get married,’

you pull in.

When you’re watching a man in a tie hold back his smile,

as he sells his juvenile people a war,

you push out.

When you’re watching your child kicking a ball—

he falls to the ground and lies very still,

then you imagine he has gone to that war.

you pull in.

When you are old, and your child is checking

his phone by your hospital bed,

and you push out, you pull in, you push out, you pull in,

you pull in, you pull in, you pull in

and then our old friend with his very still hands

reaches in and holds your diaphragm down,

calming it like you hold a pet down

so that you don’t bother the air anymore.

—Satyajit Sarna, from ‘The Penguin Book of Indian Poets’ Penguin Random House India 2022