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smokes
I’m always up for a smoke, says my sister. I, too, am always up for one, I say. so we bundle ourselves in hats, scarves, coats. at least we are outside, not in, says my sister, & I say the same. the ice of January changes to steam as we speak. the smoke from the Lucky Strike burns in our throats. breath & smoke. smoke & breath. fire & mirror. cold & clear. & as an hour passes, the clouds pink above us. inside my head, she says, there is a sun that never rises. & in my chest, I say, a bell that rings without end. what is seamlessly continuous except time or nothing? then, out the door an attendant pokes his head. time’s up, he says. I nod & my sister snuffs out her cigarette & disappears into the ward from its high-walled courtyard.