Cigs

we smoke
our paper
lungs

in the storm
then run
from your mom

to seek
an awning
to shield

the holes
in our chests

flames
tempered
by rain

clouds
scream
from our mouths

billowed gray
how it floats
above like

to warn us
forests need not
consume flame

 

(originally published in Hedge Apple, Spring 2019)

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