poetry critical

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An early memory. Ribbons
of smoke curling
past the lamp.
Gin and tonic
and lipstick on the glass
and laughter.
You, slender as a reed,
fraught with a need
to be more than you
can be.
Laughter brandished
like a sword.  Smoke curls
up against the door,
circles three times
and makes its bed in
whomever you've become.
Your skin hangs
on your skull,
yellow teeth and pale
bones beat a dying rhythm.
I look into your eyes
and hear them pleading.
You look at mine.
Can you hear them scream?
How long
before the smoke
no longer lingers?

21 Apr 09

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