“I don’t smoke,” she says
as she lifts back the bottle
and the golden liquor
burns and soothes.
And when she cries she smiles
And she doesn’t know why
Except that it feels like a note
Too low to sing.
Her laugh consumes
Angst for a time
Until the humor bleeds dry
And she closes her eyes again.
And so she burns burns
Burns, lying in an ashtray,
trying to sleep
Like the cigarette she’ll never smoke.
Sebastian Clarkin 