One of the very first poems I wrote in English.
Sick Smoke
-
I blew the candle on the table
and my irises turned red,
so that I couldn’t see your figure in the smoke.
-
The smoke got trapped into your bag
and cut the lyrics that I wrote you
and lit the candle form the mystics.
-
You thought they’d heal you
with their books of remedies and magic,
but you remain unsettled.
-
Your hair, butter scotched
like melting melon ice-cream
and your nails too.
-
The smoke piped around your eyes.
Red vines in an ivory void,
purple underneath,
Sick.
