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nitrogen hypoxia
they sit him down, strap the arms,
not the old chair, not the rope—
this is cleaner, scientific,
no blood, no sparks,
just the mask.
the lungs beg first,
pulling at nothing,
a vacuum of sky
swallowing itself.
the heart beats like a busted drum,
then quieter,
the eyes go wet, then far—
a man drowning on land
without water, without storm.
the state calls it mercy.
but death is still death,
as the body visibly shows us.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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