Smoke In The Distance

The smell of smoke reminds me of
the countryside, grey alighting the
horizon, incinerating the green.

I stood in front of your dresser, then,
your nightgown stretched over
the white shape of my hand.

Every night the grandfather clock’s
regular tick paced down the hall.
I am not yet over all the things

I failed to ask you. Walking up the
city street I smell smoke, and
the tar blooms into the lush

fields where the fires rose,
driving home from school that
final summer. Driving to your

house, the blue silks flying
behind us like a wedding car.
The colour of those clear cold

mornings where the balloons
took off, and we craned, trying
to glimpse them through the

windshield. On days like this
I miss you like balloons. I miss you like
smoke in the distance.

Night Crimes

Tonight I can’t sleep, so I stay awake
and wonder when the end will come.

People who aren’t me are screaming
on the street. People who aren’t me

are sleeping feet away from me. In
the heat of my room I paw at the dark.

It doesn’t feel like anything, my hand
in front of me a soft disturbance.

My friends wake up mad at me when I
hurt them in their dreams. Why do I do that?

In the day, I overcompensate for these
imagined crimes. How can I be forgiven?

A car driving up the street sounds like
a storm fast-forwarded. The time blurs

into a hot red oval. My friends sleep
near me. I hope I do not hurt them. I hope

they will forgive me for anything I do.

Maia Armistead is a poet and student originally from Hamilton. She has been published in such places as Starling, Mayhem, Rejection Letters, a fine line and The Spinoff.