It was an early spring party, when gypsy moth
caterpillars dangled between the fingers of the trees.
We were as real and as pale as the ash.

Heft like a pencil scratching, throaty coughs
and bravado, parents on a business trip.
We smashed cans with our feet, all the weight

and need of adolescence generous in our steps.
At sixteen mom smoked in the parlor with
her father, flicking into the ash can, radio

tuned to The Shadow, knobby brass
dial set to scare. Who knew the plumes
of smoke would poison the home second-

hand, darken the draperies, collect in the
lobes, both lung and brain? Family history

meant nothing when every lighter flick
brought me closer to flight, every fiber
of the filter a promised remedy, and it gave
me something to do with my hands, stained
a vague yellow, sweater holding the scent tight.