Rhys Lee
The Boy Who Smokes and the Pretty Girl
The smoking barrel of
a fifty-year gun droops from
his fingers, like surrealist
clocks, which he kisses
with his chapped lips at
half-minute intervals.
The ravines in his hands,
deep as the Grand Canyon,
are filled with dirt, oil, and
grease like semi-permeable
dams trying to hold the
tempest inside.
Addict-shaking hands
tear into a carton of
cigarettes he hasn’t seen
since the Big Bang, cosmic
maladies building up, forming
cracks, needing a fix.
Her high cheek bones hold
a self-medicated blush, her stark
hazel eyes, red and swollen
from a broken dam, now
flow with alcohol
instead of tears.
Different thoughts never
formed, she now contemplates
slitting wrists to bleed
out until the deep rivers
finally form words for
the tempest inside.
Her petite shaking shoulders
crave comfort from
addict-shaking hands
which are bringing
cigarettes to chapped lips
at half-minute intervals.
Alas, lost in morning,
the Ferryman stole their child.
