David Greenspan

Language for the needy thing in your lungs

There are countless ways to practice smoking
out of your bedroom window. Perhaps
the most popular is to be sad
and hold a Marlboro Light delicately
between your thumb and index finger
as night is born kicking, harmonica shrill,
full of opossums themselves full of
a tender, dew like sadness. Draw
only occasionally, say once a minute,
and spend the remaining fifty-seven seconds
staring at clouds that look like cat’s feet,
your eyes fat and shining
with something close to nostalgia.
You can replace sad with young,
which is also popular,
though you’ll then have to replace
nostalgia with yearning
(avalanche is acceptable).
This is easier said than done.
You can practice
lounging at your window post-sex,
elbows jutted at a painful angle,
jutted like a humid road climbing
a hill, like an August spent
riding bikes with your best friend
who will one day die though so will you
so why shouldn’t you build the ramp,
play in the crayon rich dirt,
touch each other’s legs
with wonder. After several cigarettes
your elbows will thicken,
your pulse will settle comfortably
between moonstruck and banjo.
Use a pillow to ensure modesty.
Watch out for dog walkers
and, if you happen to live
in a city, bike messengers as well.
You can now move onto advanced techniques,
what we’ll call the Don Draper,
the Amory Blaine. These involve
a certain self centeredness,
a languid slink of body and mood
which is hard to describe in words
(think daffodil and honeysuckle
bent stemmed in a field itself
covered in cough syrup). Your partner
will find this pose repugnant,
but pay them little to no attention.
You’ll want to smoke Kools. You can practice
heartbroken smoking after
your partner stops returning your texts
for obvious reasons. This involves
entire mornings spent nervous,
cold in bed in a bright room
with a cat curled up
close at various times
on your stomach, between your legs,
against the small of your back. It’s difficult
to smoke without bothering the cat,
but remember this is practice.
You’ll fail. The cat will leave with a puff
of disdain. You’ll question
whether you are lovable in any way.
There’s not much to say about these hours.
You may find yourself later on a patch of grass
brimming with cigarette sprouts.
You may find yourself wondering
if you’re more lithium or the hum
of insurance bloated patients
politely discussing the weather.

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David Greenspan is an MFA candidate at the University of Massachusetts Amherst and serves as Promotions Editor for Slope Editions. His poems have appeared in places like BathHouse Journal, Laurel Review, New South, The Southeast Review, The Sonora Review and others.