You Remember a Room Filling with Cigarette Smoke: A Poem by Erin Jamieson
1 min read
After the Wake
you remember a room
filling with cigarette smoke
a plain metal bowl with
stale cereal, no milk
a checkered table runner
stiff wooden chairs that
groaned as if protesting
your existence
you remember a father
sawdust coating his hair
calloused hands grabbing
your spoon, demanding
Don’t you know how
expensive it is to feed you?
a cramped backyard with
a single tire swing, whose
cries echoed the ache of loneliness
that clawed at you more than
hunger ever could
you remember wedding photos
your mother’s face creased
a chill to her smile as she posed
in mass produced lace
and your father tearing up
what little you had left
of her: I told you not
to come in here, I told
you not to touch anything
The brick home still smells
of your father’s aftershave
and the cigarettes that took
his life
Author: Erin Jamieson’s (She/Her) writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines and nominated twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press) and a historical novel, Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams (Type Eighteen Books), and two poetry collections. She has a forthcoming MG Fantasy novel with Emberwick Press.