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A Cigarette after Bisque

Brandon Funk

Having finished the wine,
she and I stood at the sink
with our hands working
beneath us, hers
in the soapy water,
mine with towel and faucet.

Her husband Paul
was in the room adjacent
to us. I looked over
my shoulder into the room's
darkness and could not see
him, only a flag of smoke
drifting through the doorway.

I've known him since
we were kids, I told her.
She kept her face down,
handing me bowls and silver
spoons. And he hasn't
changed much.

She pulled the drain free
and turned her head up,
her perfect brown curls
augmented since dinner.
I'm sorry, she says.
We shouldn't fight
in front of you. I'm sorry.

Danger, a coal glowing,
lingered while she cried.
With one arm reluctant
at first, I held most of her.
A chin against my shoulder,
a passing breath of garlic.
		
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