Two Hundred Fifty-Five Thousand Times
She knows.
She, the smoker.
She, the one with fire in her hand
and calculation in her footsteps.
She knew I was outside today,
for the first time.
She heard the quiet in the garden.
She waited.
Then came the click.
The flame.
The hiss of the poison she calls routine.
She lit it—again.
She walked—again.
She positioned herself—again.
And I breathed it—
again.
Two hundred fifty-five thousand times.
That’s how many.
That’s how often she’s done it.
And I ask you:
How many times must lungs protest
before air belongs to them again?
How many times must she
wrap her war in something so small,
so legal,
so gray?
I water flowers.
She waters the fire.
I try to grow.
She tries to choke.
And still I ask:
How many?
How many more?
How long
until the match goes out
for good?