Propped on a cushion
she smiles to herself,
worn out nearly to ashes
by an opium habit.
Inside the den
breathes safety,
reclined among
the smoke-witch lines
which construct her room.

She smiles again
but it is more a grimace,
cutting through bittersweet fumes
with the face of her husband-general -
bamboo stick and
six concubines at hand.

Closing her eyes,
she inhales deeply from the pipe
and manages this time
a luxuriant smile.

** previously published in Yomimono #6 (Spring 1997), Japan.