ashtrays all over the house.
they
were always filled
with dead
butts, thick drifts
of grey
plumes.
my mother smoked,
my father smoked,
my grandmother,
never took a breath
without a Virginia Slim
in her hand.
i remember the matches
and the silver lighters,
the snap of their lids.
the lighter fluid.
how my father kept
a pack in his
shirt sleeve the way he
saw Marlon Brando do it
in The Wild Ones.
he would tap
a pack down,
until
they were ready to be lit.
smashing flat each
cigarette tip.
the house was filled
with blue
smoke.
we were all red eyed
and coughing.,
even the new born,
and yet somehow we lived.
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