When my mother
was seventeen
she was pregnant
with me and she smoked
an awful lot of cigarettes.

I think this has affected me.
Ever since I came of age,
I’ve craved
endless cigarettes,
All kinds; regulars. lights.
Cigarettes with menthol.
Fruit flavored.

It’s more than delighting
in the sight of smoke
as it’s expelled from my mouth,
like ephemeral donuts.
Or launched
like a two pronged offensive
from my nostrils.
Or the weightlessness
as I traverse
my mind's mossier precincts
and recall an instance of smoke
as it formed an exquisite web,
in slants of afternoon sun,
in the room where I was born.