We are tucked down the back of our garden,

which truthfully, is not so much garden as it is

a strip of concrete,

but tonight it suits our purposes

just fine

as we tip and fall

to the ground behind the air con unit

and my head is spinning from all the smoke

and my sister, who will not speak to me

without a cigarette in her hand

says “no,

you’re not doing it right”

and shows me how to hold the smoke in my lungs

and soon

I am leaning my dizzy head against the wall

and contemplating how gladly she reaches for me,

these nights.

I think sometimes she pretends

she is an only child. I don’t blame her.

But I blame myself, either,

for rushing to her side when midnight comes,

and she knocks softly on my door, and I know

she needs a partner in crime.

I sit on the concrete,

and let the burning settle in.

I allow this secret club to become something

I can relish in, like the hot night air,

or the darkness just beyond the lighter

beneath my thumb.

How glad am I

to be trading the insides of my body

for just a little of her time.