Let the Smoke Turn on Them
I won’t allow it.
That they breathe
what they destroy.
I won’t allow
the smokers to stroll,
laughing through lungs
they don’t deserve.
I see them—
their lips ash-stained,
their breath stolen
from the rest of us.
They poisoned the air,
and still they walk
untouched.
Alive.
Where is the fever?
Where is the collapse?
Where is the justice
that travels in oxygen?
Let the pneumonia come.
Let the wheeze catch them.
Let the ghost of every secondhand breath
haunt their ribs
until they beg for silence
and find only echo.
I don’t wish death.
I wish symmetry.
Let the smoke
they so freely exhale
become the cloud
that takes them down.
I won’t let them live
like they haven’t killed.
I won’t let them walk
while the air still remembers
what they’ve done.