You don’t smoke anymore

but your brain lights fire to itself,
your brocade of want
flammable­­

fusing, refusing.

 

I will eat,

be the apple,

for the sake of my child;

    your eye emptied without me,
    so cavernous,

    you would

    let

    your

    son

    drowned

    in its black bottom,
    you don’t notice.

 

I know where I want to belong
but I will linger,

liminal,

‘til there is nothing left to turn
and I am a new terrible,

just like some sweet autumn smoke
you cannot grasp.