+ A BooksActually feature: Boey Kim Cheng

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Consulate

Consulate was the brand he smoked,
most at ease when wrapped in its clouds,
solvent, all mistakes erased.
I liked the quick scratch of the match,
the blue flare, the cupped flame
held to the waiting tip,
the burn like a red star,
his billowing nostrils
and the peace coursing through
as he leaned back in the lounge.
When I lit my first cigarette
I angled the match like he did,
but failed to make it catch
at the first strike on the Swallow box.

I waggled my wrist
and flicked the match
over the rail of the Cavanagh Bridge
and felt the incendiary burn,
the giddy rush, and my father
drifting back, the bad debts dissolved
in the peace,
the reconciliatory smoke.