A Cigarette's Her Raison d'Etre
Ripped from bright dreams, she stretches
and turns and yawns and groans.
Smoking Silk Cut Purples
in the blueness of dawn,
her feelings become thoughts.
She tries them on for size.
What shall I do today?
I could take a red bath,
walk along the clifftops
in the mist, uncork poison,
the antidote to me,
or sit in the garage
with the engine on... The
glow at the rim of night
opens like an eyelid.
I know, I'll get Daddy's
gun, go clack through the gate
I swung on as a girl,
kneel in the orchard
and, holding the barrel
upside down, kiss the 'o'.
They'll hear pop, think it's a
cork and pull cauls of sleep
back up. Leave my body out
with the garbage; I want to
wake up somewhere else. But
the birds start singing, far,
near, and the sky blooms
with roses, and what seemed
solid, impenetrable,
in the blueness of dawn
melts; as insubstantial
as unremembered dreams.
(previously published in
HWA Poetry Showcase Vol. II)
