Poetry from The Literary Review



Cigarette Girl

Chad Parmenter
        Desire's too close to cold.
Baby, may we always, only meet
within the smolder, pulse, and fold
of need. May we breathe heat.


        Your braids, filtered into
my fists, glow tangerine, sweat-lit
like the street outside is by ice.
Your torso rotates, slippery

        as smoke, something
turning your smile down,
and I'd read pain, except
you ride harder, moaning,

         I don't know, names
of burnt saints or cigarettes.
Below, a snow plow moans.
Tires in chains grind banks of

        slush black as ash. Not
until your crushed murmur,
Breathe,
        do I realize I've stopped.