Blue smoke

Grandmothers cry from no salt in the eye.
They cry softly from waters in the head
Of memories of husbands lost in opium
Of sons and grand-nieces lost to a moon.

They laugh toothless laughter in ripples
Over vegan jokes made specially for kids,
Not on fart jokes in high demand by them.
As they make hot evening snacks for kids
They rub their eye-whites, of blue smoke.

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