Christina, Puff of Smoke
When we were nine
and yearning, outcasted
I did not understand the bruised
nature of your soul. Perhaps I
do not understand even now.
I remember
how I criticized you for the way
you sang "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star"
in your warbling baby voice
also how you were the only one
who ever acknowledged me.
I remember
how you lived with grandparents, aunts
instead of your methhead parents.
Your blonde hair. Your ugly clothes.
Freckles and a cheap brand of romanticism.
A picture of you and me, sixteen:
I remember
you used to say, "Call me Puff"
to all the dangerous boys; we once
crowded on a dirty mattress with four
other people passing bong for weed,
pipe for that toxic crystal Devil of
devils. I remember
you fed me cigarettes, cherry tomatoes
from your grandfather's garden.
A lightless smoky room full
of young and lonesome prisoners
of perpetuated misguided soul-searching--
I remember
how we savored our shared pain
like something holy. Godhead of
black magic and the violation
of innocence.
Today I
am torn of that chrysalis,
and I think sometimes of your soul
left there to stagnate
in the dark. Christina
I don't know how to say
any of this to you,
but when I remember how
you fed me cherry tomatoes
I think of your grandfather
finding you out, you were feeding
meth to your young teenaged sister
so she wouldn't care if your
boyfriend and all his friends
f***ed her.
I remember
feeling so much love for you (sister?)
when now your name compels in me
nothing but disgust--this disgust
which bruises my soul, Christina...
I never wanted to feel this.
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