Chandler’s poem about a gold chain
is a sinker on a fishing line
in the classroom where fluorescent
lights suck smoke out of my lungs.
Smoke that I inhaled 20 years ago
is falling out of my mouth,
it is smearing the chalk on the board.
This smoke has been lodged behind my voice box.
I turn the lights off and barbed wire appears,
it cuts my desk in half and stops me
from telling Chandler that I don’t know
what to do about the man in Wyoming who got …