Consequences

Written from a prompt, and not my own life. I don’t smoke.

Consequences

Cancer doesn’t scare me nearly
as much as Aunt Lola,
who always thought I would
break the snow globes or
drop the babies or
make the cakes fall.

It’s not the long-term consequences
that are perfectly laid out
for me in a satin-lined casket
on the other side of this very wall
that keep me jumpy.

It’s the drooping lines that will form
at the corners of Lola’s mouth
and that tiny sound,
most writers say is “Tsk, tsk,”
but I know is “sick, sick,”
that will slip through her
two gappy front teeth
whe she sees me here,
cigarette hidden in my cupped fist,
hiding from the consequences.