Cigarettes

My father and uncle started smoking as teenagers, kids, really.
My uncle, the baby brother, following my father everywhere.
Getting caught, because they smoked on the front porch
And my grandma found all the butts left in the dirt.
Dumb kids blew their own cover.

I hate the smell of cigarettes.
In grade school, the slideshows flashed cancer, black tar, nicotine tick.
I ran home and begged my father to stop
But over 15 years of smoking is a long smouldering fire
Sizzling embers, eating deep, cementing the pack into his pocket

My father is one of many smokers in this family.
I'm not quite sure what the difference is between a smoker and a person who smokes, we have plenty of those too.
I think it has something to do with how much ash is in the tray.

I do not smoke as an adult because I inhaled enough as a child.
I am careful enough to consider addiction a family pattern.

Two christmases ago, my uncle came to visit.
He looked older than my father.
Like over fifteen years of smoking had given him extra years
Along with the harder drugs and trips to rehab
When I took out the trash it reeked of their childhood
I think, they felt closest smoking on the porch together.

I hate the smell of cigarette
But smoke coiling up to the stars is also this brotherly love.
My grandmother's soft skin, my aunt's laugh,
Fire pit family parties with a side of ash tray.

There are no health class slide shows in college
But my father is probably getting another divorce.
So, he is probably buying another pack.

My uncle doesn't smoke anymore,
But that's because he's dead.
I didn't go to the funeral,
Like I didn't smoke the night I found out.
Not for a lack of wanting.

He'd been dead for a week when they found them I mean,
and now every pack is a gateway too,
An empty pill bottle too, another addiction too, his body too,
Wherever the smoke goes I mean,
This is fitting somehow,
A boy burning himself into a man made of ash

I don't know if my father smoked on his way to the funeral
But I would be surprised if he didn't
I'm not quite sure what the difference is between my father smoking with his baby brother and my father smoking alone.
I think it has something to do with how much ash is in the tray.

I say I hate the smell of cigarettes
Because I mean,
I hate that my father cannot handle death without putting it to his lips

I say I hate the smell of cigarettes,
But I mean,
I haven't been able to mourn my uncle because I'm too busy worrying my father will turn around and follow his smoke signals.

I say I hate the smell of cigarettes
Because I wanted one when death came
Because I wonder if my father wanted death when the smoke came.
I mean,
I didn't go to the funeral for fear I'd see something of my own face in the ash.
I mean,
I hate my hands when they itch for the fire
I mean,
I hate myself when I want a light
I mean,
Whenever I want to follow.