blowing smoke

i would have to rate you
right up there with fresh baked bread
and english cherries ripe and red
i have forgotten, almost
the feel of my young
lying sleepy, sated, in my arms
but i still remember past time
through the faint blue tinted clouds
of your addictive hazy company
memory wanes with ticking clocks
yet few remain as clear and sharp
as my first time with you
nine i was, the very first
the old farm house, cut into the hill
the garden terraced above, terraced below
me and joe hidden in the long grass
of the top terrace, smoking
keeping a watchful eye on the family
as they enjoyed the cool of the day
on the long red polished verandah


my sister, the wild one
or so my young mind imagined
the idol of my childhood
born to be the rock and roll generation
who slept with a framed photo of elvis
tucked beneath her pillow
she worked in the city, wore three quarter jeans
with stripes and laces
her boyfriend rode a motorbike
she rode with him, she smoked
and so i sneaked about
and stole a cigarette from her pack
and dragged poor joe after me
up to the top terrace
where, hidden in the long grass
i smoked you, my first cigarette
of course i shared you with my little brother
the equally guilty do not run
wide eyed and innocent
with tales to mama


did i enjoy my first smoke?
i remember the dizzy head rush
of the first nicotine hit
that year the russians launched sputnik 2
with a dog on board
the dog never made it back to earth
not as a panting, barking, tail wagging
living animal
she died from overheating and panic
what did they expect?
so, laika the russian dog
died in space and i smoked
my very first cigarette
in 1957

Copyright © 2009 by Eryll Oellermann