Cigarettes and Bells

She laid in bed and counted,

not sheep,

but how many cigarettes she had smoked that day;

knowing that not only did the surgeon general not approve,

neither did her parents.

She brought what she had promised.

Bells to tie around her ankles,

so that her elders could tell

if she’d missed a step in her ritual dance.

She learned then that

acceptance and approval are two different things.

She promised she wouldn’t be naked anymore--

she wouldn’t victimize herself to scrutiny.

Dances are done for the approval of others,

and she wouldn’t step into those bells again.

But she missed the twinkle that followed her feet

and couldn’t accept herself 

with a silent serenade.

She smoked more cigarettes than ever.

Became less nude, more naked.

Breathed pleas, and wisps, and questions, and

ultimately, just smoke.

She learned that liberation can be lonely.

Her ankles didn’t bleed,

but the cigarettes started to make her choke.