Adulterated

Hannah Smokler | Fall 2023

A puff of cotton-candy smog clouds the front
windshield of the car behind me as I step out of my own
and pull my bag from the backseat and lock
the doors and eye the couple talking and it isn’t my
business but I wonder what they’re talking about
and the boy takes another inhale hold exhale smoke

from a vehicle of destruction or teen romance or some other
secret thing to take to the graveyard to bury in the ground
I stole your breath in my car last winter when we sat
in my garage after we got home from dinner salt still
on my tongue and lips and my mom and brother came home
while your mouth was on mine and they never said

anything about it that unspoken incident but my saliva
tastes like regret and my cheeks are flushed and swollen
with heavy words excuses and apologies but I never say
anything about it or that I’m sorry or that I love the quiet
moments sitting in silence alone with you while I hold
my breath in my lungs unpolluted and pure.