Body Odor and Cigarettes

When I was a little girl I told

my daddy I liked the smell of his

truck, and he lifted an eyebrow

at me, gripping the steering wheel

with calloused hands and told me

it was "nothing but body odor

and cigarettes," and I laughed.

When I was older I hated

that smell. I begged him

to quit with every coughing

fit so long his face turned red.

I’d cry and wonder if he was

about to die, but when he stopped,

he’d take a swig of Sun Drop, suck

on his Winston, and grin at me.

When I was in college, engaged

to the man who had raped me,

Daddy called me a whore so I

damned him. He just lit another

cigarette while I cried in my

mother's arms, lying and whispering

"I hate him" through a lump

in my throat so big

it hurt to breathe.

When I was single and broke

and had roommates from

craigslist, I went to a gas station

and bought my first pack. I lit one

with a lighter I stole and inhaled

it too deeply, coughing until my

throat burned, dropping ashes

on my bed, leaving stubs in my car

and in other people’s ashtrays,

and I went numb.

When I had bought too many

packs to count, when I’d lost

my savings and my will to live,

I came back home. Daddy and I

sat on the deck and avoided

talking about our year apart,

my sweaty hand gripping his

old black lighter, desperate

to hide behind a wall

of smoke. I told him I was

happy. He forced a smile.

When I blew another tire in

October, I had a panic attack

at the wheel. I wanted to wreck

my car, and I hyperventilated

until I was dizzy, and I went home

so I wouldn’t hurt myself

and Daddy turned on Rocky

and he said “it’s about how

many hits you can take and keep getting

back up” and he pretended

not to see the tears on my cheeks

and he lit a cigarette

and I pretended not to love

the smell of smoke.