she moved around the room with such
confidence and sat down on the red satin leather
couch. she lit a cigarette (was it a newport or
a marlboro red?). she told me she was an
angel of god.
i asked her to fly.
she ashed out her cigarette on her veins;
i could swear she spelled my name in black.
the ceiling lingered with a haze and i
didn’t know what to tell her other
than the stories i craft in my head on nights
when i decide whether or not i want to see the sunrise.
she just insisted this was a phase every teenage
boy goes through. but tell why my mother cries on christmas
because she’s being too nice, is that just another
phase, or is she just dealing with her life?
i asked her for a cigarette, but instead she told
me that god doesn’t love the smoke in my lungs,
or the stories in my brain, or the hands that write his name.