Space Struck

by Paige Lewis

lately all my what ifs are about breath: What if a glassblower inhales at the wrong moment? What if I’m drifting on a sailboat and the wind stops? If he’d ask me how I’m feeling, I’d give him the long version—I feel as if I’m on the moon listening to the air hiss out of my spacesuit, and I can’t find the hole. I’m the vice president of panic, and the president is missing.