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June 7, 2017 | Poetry

Secondhand Smoke

Martin Ott

Secondhand Smoke photo

The man who bought Hitler’s bed did not have nightmares as a child. The thrum of the refrigerator in the night is a lesson in languages from the underworld. I once married a woman who filled the garage with grief. The captains’ logs of clipper ships track the weather but not the cartography of cargo. In the fog of family road trips, the cigarette smoke circled us, windows down so nothing could escape. 

 

image: Steven Lang


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