Untitled, Audrey

Untitled
by Audrey

I am a cigarette nestled
Between the splayed fingers
Of something large and capricious.
I am held to its lit match,
Awakened to the possibility of burning.

My feet
Resist the flame. It is too early yet
to be engulfed.

Two weeks later, its lips take a drag
And I’ll admit that I submit
Just enough to glow red and curl at the periphery.

Through whatever will I have, I try
to disintegrate only slowly, but you can hear
the sound like ripping as the embers dance upward, almost festive

Almost reveling in the smoke I become
Through the nostrils of an unknowable cruelty,
I am dissipated.

A long inhalation
I am spent, weakened
Turning to ash by degrees

I have not yet fallen.
I will, inevitably
But I hold on as an act of blind faith.

The phone rings.
The small vibration is enough
To disperse the ash of me

I am in the car moments later
The window rolls down
I am flicked out into darkness.

When I hit, I tumble violently. Embers
Loosening, spreading, bouncing to oblivion.

:::

about the poem.
This poem is about the time between learning that my pregnancy was high risk and the final trip to the hospital the night that Eva died. -Audrey

about the poet.
Audrey is the mother of three. She is raising two and writes at Glutton Button.