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)
in the future i’d be watching you smoke
cigarettes
waving your smoke away
with cleaver hands
breakfast would come
we’d slice cucumbers in the wet-
snake leather kitchen
rectangular blade neatly fit
sink-soaked
the yolk in the sandwich a little drippy
warm & familiar
the electric stampede of spiders’ feet
never did the future weave
faint spiderweb strands
(originally published in Sobotka Literary Magazine – Issue #3)
Never touched her mouth.
Abandoned in the green room.
Leads me back to a twilight daze
when winding up the knowledge
would propel you into a frenzy
without ever touching lips.
I smoke her fingertip into
dark clouds and remember
the accumulating snow
which falls, now, as tiny ashes.
(originally published in Oatmeal Magazine – Issue #8, April 2015)
my mouth & cigarette smoke
like chewed lipstick.
faces clung with intertwined tongue
sweat, turtle. the lotioned hand.
grip now. hold.
(originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal – Issue #14)