The First Line of This Poem Could Be Its Own Poem by Leigh Chadwick

You light my cigarette with the heat between my thighs.

The First Line of This Poem Could Be Its Own Poem

by Leigh Chadwick

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Outside, man-made thunder above us, we sit on a picnic table we found using a treasure map that was scratched into the bark of a tree, faded like the initials of lost lovers, as we share a bottle of Pinot Grigio that’s lightly sweating from the lips. You take a pack of blue American Spirits out of your pocket. You light my cigarette with the heat between my thighs. You take a drag and stare at what sits on your head. The sun, you say, I like it on my face. Studies show they are studies. Nine out of ten dentists recommend brushing your heart twice a decade. My psychiatrist’s psychiatrist’s cousin—a guy who knows a guy who’s a heart surgeon in Des Moines—recommends waiting forty-five minutes after growing wings before drowning in a lake. The sun, you say, looks like it’s kissing itself. Somewhere a willow sways. I tell every forest you will always be my favorite tree. The bottle of wine on the picnic table is empty, though it's still sweating. You use your cigarette to light mine. Nine out of ten pediatricians agree that cigarettes taste better when you smoke them. Back home, we eat buttered noodles in bed. I can hold my breath through seven ellipses, you say. I tell you, I love the way you say wow even in the wintertime. Across the street, the sign outside a hardware store reads We sell hammers by the pound. My favorite part of drugs are the side effects. I can smell track thirteen of Doolittle on your wrists. I keep forgetting to ask the moon what it’s always running away from. When I find out, I will have found out.