Smokestack

Poetry by Noll Griffin

If he’s dead I can’t restrain him.

A ghost like a refinery crouched on the horizon, in miniature,

The growl of odor in the corner.

I’m hanging bags of charcoal and salt.

No matter how far out the window you lean, the miasma clings

To the embarrassed sharpshooter’s black sleeve.

Not your fault, not your memory. Not you.

A cloud hooks through the air, my mouth is punched

Paper lined up around identical holes,

Ready to snap through the rings. I wish you’d quit

Trying out for the same execution that freed me.

Halloween, birthday cake, all mysteries sat and singed,

Confusing gummy candles with stamped-out wishes

At the bottlebrush mustache of squirm-away touch

Above a clammy lip’s flapping grief.

There’s a hollow in the sofa that can still support a shadow,

My unread book of rolling papers, I tuck into

His pile of discount paperbacks newly carved into safes.

Violence to violence glued like I could stem the bleed,

Bleach on the silent walls’ spider veins.

I should be grateful for the clock, whatever stops swinging for a cigarette

Like the ashtray kept a ruddy tick of conscience on its rim.

BIO: Noll Griffin is a visual artist, writer, and musician based in Berlin, Germany. His poetry has appeared in The Purposeful Mayonnaise, The Wild Word, and Reap Thrill among others. You can find him on Instagram at @nollprints or on Tumblr/Twitter/Bluesky under @nollthere.