Tip.

He wouldn’t even hold
His mother’s smoke damaged hands,
Not that any fire had flicked by her
And carried off a finger, or raised
Unearned blisters or strands of
Ash lingered; only tobacco stains
Kissed her and its stink pissed there,
And her hands held the rumours of death;
The blooms that took breath from
The charnel house gardens of want.