Smoke

By: Alicia Pietrzak

 

It spills off the end
of my cigarette as it did
off hers, except now
I always stain my filters
with lipstick.

But there was once a time we couldn’t
distinguish between the two resting
in an ashtray, as the slivers
of grey ghosts trickled
through the room, blending
into one cloud. Rising above
the thick din of gravity that kept
us cross-legged on the floor, dwelling on
what was to come that next day.

And she would pick
hers up between
her calloused fingers,
on hands that were always
rougher, stronger than mine.
Hands that rolled
the stories of our
illicit youth, and brought
a heathen smoke to our saintly
mouths, that would turn
upward, grinning
as the high set in. With memories that were

curtailed by reality, we packed
her up to ship
her out to guns and camouflage,
away from the security
of Newton St. and the yellow
walls of her bedroom
that were coated
with a narrative about
best friends and their vices.

And as we pulled
the tapestries and posters down
into boxes. I was surprised
to see stark white
rectangles beneath
in their absence.

 

 

Alicia Pietrzak is a sociology major and creative writing minor at Canisius College in Buffalo, NY.  She plans to gradate in the Spring of 2011 after six tumultuous years and pursue an MFA in creative writing. She is currently writing a memoir that she hopes to finish by 2015, and always has some poems going. Aside from writing she enjoys talk radio, her cat, the Buffalo Sabres, environmental awareness, music festivals, and the bar.