Catherine Smith
The Smoking Room
I dream you’ve died. Doctors slit you open,
boil meat from bone. They wire your skeleton,
and hang you from a pole, a hook through your skull.
Your hips jangle. They take you to their smoking room,
your ludicrous grin amuses them. They smoke
cheroots, pipes, and fat cigars. The room fogs up,
the ceiling brown as old teeth. Your bones take on
the patina of their habit, while their own lungs blacken.
My love, I will rescue you, climb through the window,
breathe the stink they’ve left, unhook you tenderly.
Fold you in my arms, run and run,
your bones warming against my skin.
Page(s) 23
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