I had to give up nicotine years ago.
Now my fingers grip bamboo chopsticks
not for salty udon noodles or slurps of sake
but for green tea, steamed broccoli and brown rice--
with sauce on the side.
I miss the inhales and exhales:
tree pose isn’t enough to kill the memory of the taste.
Cloves and black lungs,
coughs and the ashy residue,
make it easier for long stares that occur
at 5. a.m;
looking at up at the ceiling
where lines spread the shape of spider legs
across the creeping shadows.
The white noise of the fan,
and coos of my lover
isn’t enough to tune me out of me.
I miss the inhales and exhales
tree pose doesn’t kill the memory of the taste.
I want to hum a silly song
just to occupy that space:
a quiet field where dandelions and kites
breeze behind a canopy of purple leaves.