Smoking backwards is florescence,
my skin is growing in stripes
against plastered walls
where the rain grips
the sky’s end to
I will weep with you.
Dear, we keep the Eiffel braided
like our sons were named
after my heritage.
We were spun in American Spirits
and tobacco seeds
hidden beneath planks
but what if all the ships sank?
Would you take me Paris anyways?