A Poem to my new blog By Peter L., Stamford, CT


Auntie Camille thinks I don’t remember

malevolent plumes of smoke

reflecting against the oily linoleum tiles

every Monday night after Wheel of Fortune

Her shaking, almost paralyzed fingers

scrape against the windowsill and

drag the chipping paint away

as she struggles to grip the lock and

release the meandering smoke

into the buzzing Minneapolis streets

Little bits of mended porcelain fraught with gold fillings

clatter together as she stutters amidst

gulps and pants

“Go. Homework, Natalie”

Two years later and she stumbles into

my room, 145B

(tenacious perfume clings to her curved hips)

She is useless like the receding lifeline engraved in my left

palm, ambling smoke embedded in her tarnished, silvery hair

Cheekbones remind me of the Montclair cliffs we visited

Glistening tears dangle off of her cheeks

rainwater coursing through the rocky gaps

Nodding her head at the doctors,

slipping the IV in and I barely feel a thing

My eyes surge, greeted by foreign kaleidoscopes

Maybe I’ll become a French painter

capturing newlyweds as they share laughter-sprinkled crepes

at the Café Lune Avon in front of the Eiffel Tower

Maybe I’ll become a trapeze artist

and contort my body like the wisps of smoke that

ramble out of Auntie Camille’s bathroom window