smokes

I’m always up for a smoke, says my sister. 

I, too, am always up for one, I say.

so we bundle ourselves in hats, scarves, coats. 

at least we are outside, not in, says my sister, 

& I say the same. the ice of January changes 

to steam as we speak. the smoke

from the Lucky Strike burns in our throats. 

breath & smoke. smoke & breath.

fire & mirror. cold & clear.

& as an hour passes, the clouds pink above us. 

inside my head, she says, there is a sun

that never rises. & in my chest, I say, 

a bell that rings without end.

what is seamlessly continuous except time 

or nothing? then, out the door

an attendant pokes his head. time’s up, he says.

I nod & my sister snuffs out 

her cigarette & disappears

into the ward from its high-walled courtyard.