October 23, 2021During a Long Drive, I Smell Vinegar
and I know your secret, No, impossible, not again.
You spit a wad of tobacco into an empty bottle, subtly.
I pretend not to notice. There’s a lump in between your cheek,
rotting away your teeth and staining your tongue.
But you spit a wad of tobacco into an empty bottle
and I’m knocked back to 1400 Mahantongo Street,
watching it rot away your teeth and stain your tongue.
Five-year-old-me dumping Skoal into the garbage, disgusted
enough that I’m knocked back to 1983; 3rd Avenue
where your dad died, bronchiole charred from cigarettes.
Five-year-old me spilling Skoal on the couch, panicking
from its stench and mom’s face when she’d seen. Oh God, she’d say
when you’d remember how your dad died, bronchiole: charred. Fear
made you replace it with sunflower seeds, gum, something to chew,
surrendering its stench and my face when I’d see. Please God, I’d pray
when you’d try to quit. I sit in your truck as you side-spit into a bottle,
shocked that you’ve replaced the sunflower seeds with chew. Again
I pretend not to notice. There’s a lump in my throat;
you tried to quit. I sit in silence as you side-spit into a bottle.
I know our secret. No. Impossible. Not again.
from 2021 RYPA