Stubborn

The match hisses 

thumb raw from striking. Paper curls,  

slow surrender. I suck the spark  

like I’m stealing breath from a dead man’s chest.  

You always said I inhale like a rookie,  

all throat, no grace. Here’s proof.

Fingertips jaundiced, this yellow  

I scrub at dawn with lemon and guilt.  

The windowsill’s pocked with our failures

tiny moons charred black. You counted them once,  

called it a calendar. 

Your ghost smokes beside me. Promise me,

you said, but the pack lies easier in my palm.  

Ash gathers on the ledge like something alive,  

something that outlasts. 

Remember  when we tried to quit by eating mint leaves from the garden? 

They tasted like lies. We bought slims by dusk.

Filter down to the bone now. I crush it  

like a beetle, like the vows we spat  

into coffee cups. The smoke clings  

to the curtains, my hair, the dog’s fur

stubborn as grief. Tomorrow, I’ll swear  

to the mirror. Tomorrow, I’ll plant basil  

in the ashtray. But tonight, the flame’s still hungry,  

Not but filter’s corpse remaining,  

What lingers? Emptiness, soft and plain

and my hands, Christ, my hands

 keep feeding it.