WINNER, November 2009: untitled - Elizabeth Sheridan

We began
before I had begun.

My mother was eighteen,
living in the desert
and avoiding the accessories
of Sixties living (although she loved turquoise.)

Who lives in Tucson
during the height of Haight-Ashbury
and never samples
peyote?
Mescalin?
Marijuana?

My mother.
At eighteen, she shrugged
and shook her pack of Virginia Slims.
Her cigarette was her alibi.

My father was eighteen,
living in Pell's Hell
and reveling in independence
of being a kid (finally!)

Who prepares parents' taxes
for the fifth time
and never refuses
liquor?
Ladies?
Marijuana?

My father.
At eighteen, he laughed
and pulled out a Marlboro with his teeth.
His cigarette was his golden watch.

I was seventeen,
pulling straight A's
and sweeping up my family's fractures
as I worked 40 hours a week (at Chuck E. Cheese's.)

Who can dig herself
so deep that her only options
seem like
pills?
Liquor?
...?

Myself.
At seventeen, I considered
and bypassed the Stoli for the Marlboros.
My cigarette was my longest relationship.