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December 18, 2013

The cigarette held in her scarlet lips
enveloped all the room in rings of smoke,
as resting up against the paneled wall
she breathed in deep and let the smoke slip out.
The light and shadows from the window blinds
redressed her muslin coat with convicts’ stripes
and rested on her eyes like bandits’ paint.
Her hair was long and red, and fell in curls
upon her muslin coat like streams of fire
that glimmered with an orange, unholy light;
and when she took a draw upon her fag
the embers in her hair glowed brighter than
the burning cigarette, and curled with more
aplomb than exhaled smoke that from her lips
wreathed through the room in dancing rings.
Her right hand held the dwindling cigarette,
and when she lifted it up to her lips
her fingernails would gleam a glossy black.
Her left hand sat within a pocket of
her coat, and rested on the curve of hip
that faced into the room as leaned she up
against the oaken panels of the wall.
When cars drove by, a slice of light would flash
along her body’s length, and die within
the iris of her eye, where just a glint,
a memory of light, would last, just for
a briefest second’s observation—gone
before their colour was revealed. She stood
as one with smoke and fire and mystery;
she stood as one apart from time; she stood
as one with gods and immortality:
a living paradigm of earth, she stood,
and smoked, and breathed, against the paneled wall.

One Comment leave one →
  1. December 19, 2013 1:16 am

    An admirable portrayal of an instantaneous image. Remarkably well done.

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