On the front seat of his father’s Chevy

I slid that cigarette between my lips.

He drew the lighter from his jeans,

rolled a thumb across the notched barrel,

and brought the flame to me.

His hand fumbling up my thigh,

I arched my back the way

I’d seen it done in movies I watched

while my parents slept. Even then,

struggling not to cough as smoke

slid over my tongue, down my throat,

I would not have called it love.

I only cared how long I could

hold that breath before it would

slide back out, leaving me dizzy

with the poison of it. His smoke

spun out smoothly, spread across

the sagging cloth ceiling over our heads,

each small circle he exhaled hanging there,

signals neither of us could read.