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.
fiction poetry "fact" photography