I saw addiction, then, the way the unaddicted do,
as affectation, as the need for a prop.
Cigarette as fingertip bonfire, as smolder,
as flair. As a flare.
But I ask myself now, what is an organism
but a contained burn?
The cosmos a dying fire? Love a captive flame?
In my brother’s favorite film, Now Voyager,
Henreid holds two cigarettes in his mouth
with the ritual devotion of an acolyte
tending the altar candles.
Afterward the lovers inhale in sync,
watching each other’s breath slowly pulse
inside the only lit points in the room.
Shall we? my brother asked his wife
the night after the diagnosis,
a mock conspiratorial tone to his voice,
a pack of his contraband cigs
hidden in the pocket of the pool table.
People loved him.
We shall she said. We shall.