Communion I shake ash the color of autumn from my fingers on a Franklin Avenue corner, smoke floats past lips, familiar as music whistled through teeth. The men next to me greet each other, their handshakes a secret recipe. The girls across the street travel by skateboard, their movements subtle as breath. Bossa nova drifts from a duplex window, the bar below it grows graffiti like grapevines on its walls. More bodies join our corner, some blowing smoke of their own. Ashes fall like shooting stars from their mouths.
