I found your stash.  A pack of  Parliaments, the package two shades of blue with slim lines like your waist. The fragrance Arpège masked the odor, your coiffure hid the smoke.

Aluminum canisters, a wedding gift, resided in the kitchen cabinet since the first day you moved into the house. In bold letters the smallest one read TEA, the perfect size to hide your smokes.

The chipped cup was the vessel that hid the Smirnoff,  there was no need for cream and sugar.  The kitchen knew your secrets, the heart of a broken home.

Nice girls sip tea.

When they called your son retarted your cup overflows. Despite the hatred your baby boy grew into a man with special needs. You became an afterthought like the missing tea leaves at the bottom of your cup.

When you craved sweetness black licorice replaced the cigarettes, and you wore your hair down loose and carefree, changed your perfume. 

Nice girls don’t smoke.

Tiles mismatched like your marriage, I watched you dance across the kitchen floor. Years passed and you stopped dancing. 

The aluminum dented, I kept the canister when you died.

Cheryl Vargas is a poet from New Jersey. Repeat Slowly, Like Dance (IniquityPress/Vendetta Books 2024) is her most recent chapbook. Her work has been featured in Tiferet, Exit 13, Ponder Savant, The Raconteur Review, Lion and Lilac Arts, Written Tales, Big Hammer, and Ovunque Siamo.  Her work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2022. She was the Poetry Prize Judge for the 2024 Poets of Kean University. Currently, she is an associate editor at Ran Off With The Star Bassoon as well as an assistant editor at The Night Heron Barks.