| Poetry |
She hunches her shoulders
against the December chill
and pulls the long first drag
into her adolescent throat.
Paraphernalia surround her—
lighter, Camel pack, ashtray—
sacred tools in a ritual
taboo to the uninitiated.
Smoke envelops her
in a wispy, curling wreath;
she exhales sooty tendrils
as an offering to some deity
I turned my back on years ago.
(I did try to smoke, half-heartedly.
My head swam; my eyes teared.
My lungs cried “no trespassing.”)
So should I shout, forbid it?
She’d only walk farther away
than she already has.
She crushes the butt in the damp grass
and tosses it in the garbage.
Our eyes meet through the window.
Her final puff drifts toward the pines.
I do understand demarcations:
“Here I stand, father, and
you aren’t welcome to cross.”
By Scott Urban