Smoke Poem by Eileen Albrizio

After fourteen years smoke-free,
I asked my brother for a cigarette.
Hesitant, he tapped the pack
until one filtered tip popped out.

You were watching me,
yet didn’t interfere
as I struck the match,
inhaled, then inhaled once more.

Crackling tobacco assaulted my throat,
burned its way to my lungs,
left an acrid aftertaste.
Even sitting I felt dizzy.

My three surviving brothers
and I drew as hard as we could,
hoping to cloud our world
and hide what lay inside.

It’s what we did as kids. We smoked.
They taught me but didn’t know it.
A little girl scooping up
smoldering butts dropped in the grass.

I was the only one who quit.
But as we sat outside the hospital
I joined them in one last smoke,
still trying to be like my older brothers.

Somehow, I thought he would join us.
But when I snuffed the stub
he was still dead
and you were still watching me.

Once home, I stripped off my clothes,
washed the stench from my hair,
held you close to feel your breath
prove your life against my neck.