on nights when it hurts too much, even to sleep,
wakefulness sometimes finds me staring at the black
of the wall that was once cream
nostrils clearing to the sudden spark of tobacco, smoked by someone else in bed
close enough to hear, though papered over by the wall
inhaling, respirating from memory, the feel of your fingers stained and familiar
perhaps these are my fingers, in fact, the digits yellowing and rotten
I never really knew the taste of your mouth, Colonial and cancerous
it was nothing, really, your mouth
vapour, smoke curling blue against turned hand
loosened hair, softened cheek
eleanor j jackson 