Two poems, none so uplifting.

Warmth
My brother sits three feet across from me
drinking wine, he focuses on the fire,
eyes lit and reflecting, each time
he sips from the glass.


I sip something much harder,
violent like the flickers waving
between us, but only sip,
bit by bit, until all is gone.


Tonight, as so many other nights like it,
might become the tradition that leads
to addiction, but he will sit unknowing,
drinking from the cool glass,
listening to the cracking of the wood
with its unpredictable rhythms,
staring straight ahead, and keeping
warm in fire and alcohol.




Smoke
And she shivers, mountains of the stuff
from ankle, to neck, to tongue,
until the sand paper rushes down,
scratching her throat to pieces.
Watching, waiting, she sits the day away,
covering her aches in the smoke that twirls
from her bleach-blue lips.