Breath and Ash
My mother’s breath
smells of rot and death.
Not from illness,
but from things left to decay.
Words never spoken.
Grudges embalmed in silence.
A love that became ritual,
without warmth.
And outside —
he stands.
The African.
He offers cigarettes to everyone.
Especially to West Asians.
With a smile so calculated
it could be mistaken for peace.
But he never smokes.
Not one.
Not a spark.
Not a flicker.
He lets others inhale,
burn,
choke,
while he remains untouched —
aloof,
elevated,
strategic.
He spreads the flame
without ever catching it.
And we —
those of us born into breath that carries weight,
who live with names carved from erased maps —
we are the ones
expected to be polite
and say thank you.
—
Not everything is meant to be liked.
Some things are meant to cut through fog.