Night Burnings

Evening was dying into night
when she said she could do it,
would do it,
the wager unnecessary,
smoking, that is, without
choking, coughing,
a cigar, that is, but
it had to be a good one,
Cuban, preferably contraband,
so the man from Habana
handed his cigar
to the woman from Den Haag,
and she inhaled, exhaled,
smoke rising in circles from
sun-drenched
blood-drenched
fire-drenched
leaves, washed down
with brandewijn, she called it,
burnt wine for burnt leaves;
as she laughed
a single wisp of smoke
kissed
a single drop of wine
glistening in the corner
of her smile.

To see other poems prompted by the photograph, please visit One Stop Poetry.

Photograph by Mike Roemer for One Stop Poetry. Used with permission.