Some boyfriend passed out in the bucket seat,
mouth slack, my father’s breath drifting
out of him. I smell my parents’ bedroom
in the morning—the air thick with stale spirits.
When I lie on his chest, I hear my father’s
heartbeat, remember Giants games on Sunday
afternoons, my head resting on the hairy pale
of his belly. I rise and fall with each inhalation—
scotch on the rocks, vodka gimlet, cigar smoke.
I used to press my ear to my father’s gut to hear
his private churnings—clues as to what went on inside.
But I did not want to know so well his smells,
the way he’d light matches to cover up gas—
strike after strike, he’d wave the tips
in fierce zigzags as if to erase his loud essence.
I know this smell in my car tonight.
It’s the air of a man, closing in on a girl.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 3.
Cindy Milwe is the author of Salvage (Finishing Line Press, 2022). She also has poems in three anthologies: Another City: Writing from Los Angeles (City Lights, 2001), Changing Harm to Harmony: The Bullies and Bystanders Project (Marin Poetry Center Press, 2015), and Rumors, Secrets, & Lies (Anhinga Press, 2022). She is the recipient of several awards and fellowships, including Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, Dorland Mountain Arts, Salty Quill Writers Retreat for Women, and Idyllwild Arts. She lives in Venice, CA, with her husband and three children.
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