Marisa P. Clark

Second Hand 

I carried a Zippo to light the ladies’ cigarettes—
an affectation to declare myself butch:
a gentleman, debonair, always prepared.
My hand slipped out of my pocket, then gave
the butane a quick shake. When my thumb
flicked the flint-edged wheel, a flame flared up
vivid as a feather from an exotic bird’s crest.
My palm cupped the blaze, the lit tip sizzled,
and she exhaled her thanks in a long plume
aimed away. These were the nights of bars and bands,
beer I’d later learn tasted bad, and smoking
indoors. I took in my share of nicotine
just by drawing breath. At home, the clothes
we stripped off dripped with smoke. As did
our hair. Our skin. Her kiss. My bed.

Marisa P. Clark is the author of the poetry collection BIRD (Unicorn P, 2024). Her prose and poetry appear in Shenandoah, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Epiphany, Foglifter, Prairie Fire, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. Best American Essays 2011 recognized her creative nonfiction among its Notable Essays. A queer writer, she grew up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, came out in Atlanta, Georgia, and lives in New Mexico with two parrots, a standard poodle, and whatever wildlife and strays chance to visit.