Why I'm Grateful My Husband Smokes

Because fireflies are elusive sparks
and my husband their conjurer.

Cigarettes are half-tamed hornets – snap
and sting at his fingertips.

Orange is an urgent colour, the lighthouse
at the end of each drag. The homing

beacon, so my husband can always be found.
My lungs are raw veal while his are chuck roast,

all muscle and flavour. I’m grateful
for the slim-fit jeans that hug

his ass, making him a kind of Adonis.
Oh, for the appetite-suppressing elixir of Export A.

A vulture devoured the liver
of Prometheus the Fire-Bringer.

My husband looks after this himself with nicotine,
ceramides, and tar – the little imps of destruction.

This marriage is a hot air balloon
and someone needs to light the fuse.

Adonis was a mortal man
until he ignited Aphrodite.

I’m grateful for a man who carries the secret
of fire in his back pocket – grateful

the only siren who out-sings me
is a Bic lighter – snick.

Fire is the purview of gods, but I can suck
the embers from my husband’s pores.

Despite the immortality of Adonis, a wild boar
gored out his intestines, fait accompli.

Aphrodite’s tears turned into anemone flowers.
I want to see what petals I’ve got in store.