“Chantix” Sara Schellenberg

I am stomping sparks

on the driveway for the last time

so maybe I’ll outlive my brother,

and be there to not smoke at his grave

while he is turning to maggots

and I am waiting to be ashed.

Doctor says I should quit smoking.

                    I know, I know, don’t you see

                    I am embarrassed

Ashtray strangers asking my age like

they got license to smoke, they

down-low enough, French or hip

or gay enough, blue-collar or butch,

black-and-white, white-trash,

Dada or Ab-Ex enough.

                   stand sour in the rain.

                   try to keep it tender.

Forgive the early memory of black foil,

dad sitting cross-legged in the fireplace, the first sight

and smell I can remember as loving him.

Chimney-father tells me my lungs ring hollow

and deep like a drum. Now

under fluorescent lights

I am my brother, shooting cans

and scurrying away white camels, bald head

thrown down against the cruiser,

reeking like bad Nino

who threw wheelies on the dry grass,

like the tan jacket dad wore in the driveway–

                    quit smoking years before the dark

                     pansies

                     bloomed like a puddle

                     and made him into stick-man.

Doctor says his lungs are still pink and fresh

No more lung-drum beating now, sick man

still misses the cigs

I’m stepping back inside soon

wearing dad’s tan jacket. Don’t worry–