Inheritance

An early memory. 

Ribbons

of smoke curling
past the lamp.

Gin and tonic

and lipstick on the glass

and laughter.

You, slender as a reed,

fraught with a need

to be more than you

can be.

Laughter brandished

like a sword. 

Smoke curls

up against the door,

circles three times

and makes its bed in

whomever you've become.

Your skin hangs

on your skull,

yellow teeth and pale

bones beat a dying rhythm.

I look into your eyes

pleading.

You look at mine.

Can you hear them scream?

~ Elodie Pritchartt, April, 2009