

Copenhagen, Kodiak, Grizzly, Skoal—

Lily dipped them all, loved the brown shreds of leaf

as they swashed against her tongue, escapees

from the den of lip & gum,



and it was nearly as meaningful

when she was young, stealing pinches in the corner,

training the gut to handle reflux & burn

so she could get away



with it in Algebra One, where Mrs. Rowland

never taught nicotine or the brain’s strange charity,

how multiplied they equal calm, focus,

and ill, being a rebel



at that straitjacket of a school. Later,

so she could find the freshest tin, Lily moved

to Nashville where the finest, Copenhagen,

is made. That moist softness



between index and thumb, feeling her face

purse like old fruit in hot sun, nearly rivals sex, Lily said

on our last date, and, anyway, she clipped, since

everyone knows life’s



hazardous to health, isn’t addiction

synonymous with love. Lily’s drained gallons

of saliva since that contest in Clemson—

Spittoono, they called it



(she won)—but if she gets to its cousin

in Charleston, I hope she doesn’t spit any more

gently or discreetly, but enjoys the motions

of dancers as that other dance



tunes the dark orchestras of her blood.

