
Named
Kent
Think of cigarettes
"Your father named you
after his favorite brand."
My uncle chuckles
sipping Wild Turkey.
My father, a chronice smoker, smoked
nine packs during my mother's labor.
The story: he stood staring
at a pack when the nurse brought
news: "Mr. Fielding- a boy."
Think of cigarettes.
Think of my father, the white
lobby, his pacing, stick
after stick in his mouth
smoke curling from his lips
like surfer waves
in a rough ocean.
Think of cigarettes.
Think of me.
I became the smoke
that made my father cough
the smoke that blackened lungs
the smoke that filled
the long work hours
at a school he hated - inhale, inhale-
to buy bread, to buy shoes
we were poor, we needed
so many things: pencils, pants
doctor visits, dental work
electricity, heat, milk.
I am the smoke filled days
the orange flare as he inhaled.
My growth and deeds are the stubs
in the cemetery ashtray.
I got in fights at school
with kids older, gave one ten
stitches, threw rocks at cars
nicking and denting two or three.
I stole candy from stores,
peed on my 2nd grade teacher's
Datsun, hid in the woods
to avoid the principal and a whipping.
Still my father came, reliable, stern
again and again, he came
to get me from the office
cigarette stuck in the corner
of his mouth, gray smoke
drifting into his graying hair.
Again and again, he inhaled
asked, "What were you thinking?"
I think of the cigarettes
in his hands - chalk sticks
to mist one's name. Our lives
are the inhale of burning particles
Our lives are the release of gray truths.
When I die let it be with smoke & fire.
Let the consumption be brief.
Think of cigarettes.
Think of my father
working into the night
grading papers, shaking his head,
missing sleep, so that I could eat,
so that he could protect me,
so that I could grow and learn.
Think of the smoke in his lungs.
The smoke that ate his life.
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