Matt Peulen: Cross Cultural Conversation

Spring '07 TOC

Cap peeling back despite what its maker says.
Veins and wrinkles stretching
as if mocking the surgeon general straight to the tip.
Lit, it droops with the weight of ash
but struggles to redeem itself,
holding on to its cremated limb.
Too weak, it lets go
leaving only a small pyramidal glow.
Does it cry in smoke
or is it only hazy defiance at its nearing snub into sand?
The red glow crawls toward my mouth with greed.
Twenty or thirty draws in, the taste picks up.
Nutty?  Leathery?  A hint of chocolate?
Not that I can taste.
The wind gives in and the cigar excrement hangs around.
It circles and waves
to its handmade progenitor from Brazil.
Returning to Bacardi flesh
it inhales its fuel and glows anew.
Slightly damp on its scalp
it trembles now having lost its dominant appearance
its virgin state deflowered by match and mouth
and so it withers and disintegrates
with the age that once made it magnificent.
It’s stubby now and ugly.
Its ring no longer brash and flashy
simply seems to hold it together.
Its South American heritage seems under appreciated on my patio.
My single language speaking mouth leaving a dirty taste on it.
It warms my fingers to the end
the taste sweet now
even flowery despite the Puerto Rican swishes.
The gold label has done his job.
The night done and my summer complete.

:: TOC ::

Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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