by Barbara Smith
He stirs sugar into black, watching white crystals
transluce. He rolls a cigarette, crimping a white tip
and dark tobacco carefully within the rustle of thin
paper and remembers, as he snaps a match lit,
a time before: just an instant.
There was darkness there, but warmth.
Yes, gorgeous warmth … a ‘shh’ pressed
to his lips before he was handed down.
The whisper of white noise … voices?
He remembers, how long the fall was, how sheer, how short.
He sips the coffee, thankful for its bitter sweetness.
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