He told me I stunk
like my mother, who smoked
Winston Red, always burning
Oslo Orange lipstick rimmed
filter, puckered, sucking pomp.
I wore a shower cap over my damp hair
pleading with her not to smoke
on the short drive to school;
failed class after class
worrying about how I smelt.
He told me to wash
before, or was it after
he touched me
so hot, it left scars like cigarette burns.
The tip, a cherry,
pumped smoke, bitter as sperm
down my mother’s constricted throat.
I asked her not to smoke
in my home; after I fled hers.
She shrieked, “I smoked all your life
and it didn’t hurt you!”
She didn’t come back
for years, made me pay
for sin I can still smell.
Memories every mirror revives.
Oh God, what horror.
Yes.
Very powerful – a poem I can virtually SMELL! Fantastic!
Thank you so much Holly!
This would make a great anti-smoking poster. Well done as usual.
Hey there’s a thought. Thanks CC!
Nicely sad; my favorite expression was: “…sin I can still smell”
Thank you so much for sharing that with me today Mira.
My grandmother chain smoked and wore lots of perfume to mask her smell. My sisters and I would complain that the sweet candy we got from Grandma’s house taked like a cigarette dipped in perfume. Yuck. I can still taste it.
Every member of my family smoke. Before my wife and I decided to try for children she stopped and I stopped smoking in the house. I don’t like the lingering death it leaves behind. I really don’t like the connection to such a sad moment and vile smell/taste this time left with you, but I’m as always, grateful for your candidness.
Thank you Carl. I noticed your absence. Good to have you back
You’re a great writer. Beautiful poetry. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you so much Jennifer. And thanks for visiting my page.