Lighting-Up
Dec 15 2007


She smokes like a pro,
slipping the smooth white cylinder from its pack,
flicking the lighter the way a girl tosses back her hair
— casually, automatic.

There is the first long luxurious draw,
breathing-in the smoke so it fills her
mainlined into her soul.
Then releasing it, eyes almost closed:
twin trails, pencilling out of her nose,
her lips exhausting smoke,
her body deflating
as all the air goes out of it.

The first inhalation is bliss,
and I think of a glassy-eyed chinaman
lounging in a gloomy den,
sucking-up the bitter scent of opium.
Or a junkie, all jumped-up,
slumping into sweet oblivion
with his next hit.

She smokes the rest almost impatient,
as if the taste was thin
and the jolt, imperceptible,
tapping-away the ash absent-mindedly.
Because it’s the waiting that makes it so good:
her craving
like unrequited love;
then hot anonymous sex
lighting-up.