Ghazal for Chantix

I wake up late from a vivid dream in which you tell me once again
how you can’t stand to leave the house without first making your bed.

Gabija, spirit of fire, subsisted on sparse offerings of crusty bread and salt
as like an ashtray, evening mothers smothered all the red hot coals in their bed.

In film, lovers often share a cigarette directly after fucking, making love, or failing
that, smoke anyway; on screen the glowing ember never seems to scorch the bed.

There has been very little scientific research into how nicotine affects the sexual health
of women. Rattling scraps of tobacco in a pack, one loose cylinder left, alone in bed.

I tell myself once again that twitch of hand to flick the ash is purely instinct;
that this is not the first or last thing that I have quit and put to bed.

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