Bequeath

This pale face in my hands, eyes angry by
tears. A tea bag should do the trick. A cul-de-sac
of mortal paradise closing in on the headstone
before me. Lungs blister through these Marlboros,
an infection bad for my health. Above this lawn,
unkempt and maltreated, routed by loss I plea
insanity. Maker of woman, entangle me in capillaries
filled with the secondary hue of her blood. Those
frail arms had full custody of the weight
that was me.

Here ashes fall with each tap, muddling
through the mechanism that coerces me to ruminate over
the russet complexion, tattooed eyebrows, and rouge-
creamed cheekbones as the apparition of a free
foreigner, greets me in wistfulness.
I exhale the tattered snapshot of her sending me
off to tap the sublime heights of indispensable
youth on a rubber seat, holding on for Crayola-obsessed
life, after each puff of the addiction she bequeathed
me in her unconscious will. The Surgeon General
allows second-hand smoke to prevail
just this once.

Thursday mornings claim frostbite on broken
granddaughters. I inhale her license of vocal
sound tapped out at the hub as the tobacco smolders on
one end filtering out my screams on the other. My pre-lunch
prescription for coping is done, unsound. Striding past
the fanning remnants of malignancy, I am forever spun
out on her lingering nicotine.