Candy Cigarettes

 By Karen Weyant 

With pockets full of penny candy, I took 

the shortcut home from Joe’s Superette, 

sauntering along the railroad tracks behind 

the bars on South Main. As the sun set, I slid 

a single candy cigarette to my lips, mimicking

 

the smokers I knew, my pointer and middle 

fingers holding the stick between puffs,

while the sugar grew slick with my spit.​

Ahead of me, Susan Carlson threw open

the back door of Jake’s Bar, her own cigarette

 

dangling in her pouty smile, smoke hovering

like a halo around her. Everyone knew Susan, 

the girl could break up barfights with only 

her long fingernails and a barbed tongue. 

When she saw me, she smiled and waved,

 

then removed her cigarette that had burned

its way down to the butt and squashed it in Straub

beer can. Smoke trailed from the opening,

and I felt the sugar in my mouth turn sour, 

imagined I could taste ashes. I was not yet ten, 

 

my T-shirt worn flat across my chest.

With every step, the strings from my frayed

jean short brushed against my skinny thighs.

It was cold for early October, so every breath

I took was a thin puff of smoke.