A longing rose in me like smoke
The first time I caught that look
Of yours, lip bit. Slightly stoned,
I never could read faces. I turned
When I felt your eyes’ burn
Boring into my back. Was it desire?
So my mirror neurons mimicked “desire”
And I began to hanker for you, jonesing for a smoke
Like a congested chain smoker lighting up despite the burn.
I lied and told the family doctor I was looking
Into quitting you, and when you quit coming I turned
Bitter and went home alone to get stoned.
A funny thing happened when I got stoned.
It was so Zen. I forgot about your face, and the desire
That inspired poems. If this was a sonnet, the turn
Would occur here when my hopes dissipated like smoke
Negating the delicious possibilities, null upon closer look
Ash like the stash through which we’d burn
Before the ultimatum: choose which bridge to burn
Would you forego him to stay stoned?
Sacrifices must be made, I understand. Look,
It’s not my business to meddle in your desires,
But I’ve a bias- I side with sovereignty and smoke,
Some small part of me hoping you’d turn
East like a heliotrope’s turn
At dawn toward the sun’s burn.
My prophetic name, an aubade up in smoke,
A Sunday morning dawn song, stoned
Singing of curious desire
In a smoldering look
Still hopeless at interpreting that look,
I could turn
You if you desire
To satisfy the burn
Of your soul stone
With holy smoke,
Another woman turned to smoke
Stoned and burning with desire
If only it was as easy as it looks.