07 May Tobacco-Stained Fingers, By Annalynn Plopp

I rolled the cigarette paper between my thumb and forefinger,

as the Wild West blew dust and ashtray memories into my mouth.

My teeth crunched on gritty rocks, 

eroded by tides of passing centuries 

into desert sand.

The film coated my gums and my tongue rolled over a jagged molar,

like the moonshine mountain 

washed blueberry-field purple 

by the sunset.

Tumbleweed car rides kick up clouds of crimson,

when God whispers goodnight in Arizona.

The cigarette paper moistens in my hand, 

Heaven forbid I keep living the memory

Of a cowboy daydream,

when I am just a fleck of Pacific indigo

on the star-spangled landscape

of collective

memory.