Whiff of incense or ripe mango,magic carpet to India.
Buffalo dung and kerosene smoke
would take me there too, I suppose,
were I to come across any.
Jasmines and marigolds, to a lesser extent,
although the latter
might just as likely arrange a side trip.
Daddy always had them in his gardens,
held right at your nose for full effect.
Honeysuckle and pine, back to Carolina.
What is the smell of childhood? Sausage frying?
Cedars? Or the backyard pepper tree
on Shamrock Avenue?
New pencils, I'm back in school.
Certain aftershave, it's prom night
with broken curfew and crushed corsage
to show for expense and expectation.
Grandpa's cigar. Freshly mowed grass.
Just-bathed baby. New construction.
Spicy breath closing in for a kiss.
Musky aftermath on sheets and sweat.
Sickly sweet of sympathy flowers.
Gardenias, if touched, will wilt;
roses can draw blood.
Whatever risks they hold, like memories,
are overwhelmed by the
pleasant aromas longing to come out.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
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