On the Day They Celebrate the Death of the Smoke-Ban Pope
Today,
while they light candles for a man
who dared to clear the air,
I light something else—
a truth
they cannot exhale.
Today,
they wear robes of black
and pretend to grieve.
But I know—
they celebrate quietly,
those who sell lungs for money.
They call him “Pope.”
But I call him
the only one who made God’s house
a place you could breathe.
And so today,
I provoke the smokers.
I look them in their red-rimmed eyes
and say:
“He banned your poison.
He burned your empire.
He made your comfort
a sin.”
Let them hate me.
Let them burn with rage.
Let the fire inside their mouths
become a mirror
they can’t put out.
I am not mourning.
I am rising.
And I am not done
until every match they strike
becomes a confession
they can’t outrun.
Let them smoke.
Let them curse.
Let them cough in protest.
It will sound like music
to my lungs.