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Smoke
by Faith Shearin

It was everywhere in
my childhood: in restaurants,
on buses or planes. The teacher's
lounge looked like London
under fog. My grandmother
never stopped

smoking, and walking in her house
was like diving in a dark pond.
Adults were dimly lit: they carried
matches in their pockets as if
they might need fire

to see. Cigarette machines
inhaled quarters and exhaled
rectangles. Women had their own
brands, long and thin; one
was named Eve and it was meant

to be smoked in a garden thick
with summer flowers. I'm speaking
of moods: an old country store where
my grandfather met friends
and everyone spoke

behind a veil of smoke. (My Uncle
Bill preferred fragrant cigars; I can
still smell his postal jacket ...)
He had time to tell stories
because he took breaks

and there was something to do
with his hands. My mother's bridge
club gathered around tables
with ashtrays and secrets
which are best revealed

beside fire. Even the fireplaces
are gone: inefficient and messy. We
are healthier now and safer! We
have exercise and tests for
breast or colon cancer. We have

helmets and car seats and
smokeless coffee shops
where coffee has grown frothy
and complex. The old movies are
so full of smoke that actors
are hard to see

and they are often wrapped in
smoking jackets, bent over a
piano or kiss. I miss the places
smoke created. I like the way
people sat down for rest
or pleasure

and spoke to other people,
not phones, and the tiny fire
which is crimson and primitive
and warm. How long ago when
humans found this spark
of warmth and made

their first circle? What about
smoke as words? Or the pipes
of peace? In grade school
we learned how it rises and
how it can kill. We were taught
to shove towels

under our closed doors: to
stop, drop, and roll. We had a plan
to meet our family in the yard,
the house behind us alive
with all we cannot put out...

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