And it isn’t easy, you know, to not think. To not think of you. And of course, the proverbial what-might-have-been. This is the year we were supposed to get married, or have you forgotten. But of course you did. Of course you did.
Poem for a Man with No Sense of Smell
Kate ClanchyThis is simply to inform you:
that the thickest line in the kink of my hand
smells like the feel of an old school desk,
the deep carved names worn sleek with sweat;that beneath the spray of my expensive scent
my armpits sound a bass note strong
as the boom of a palm on a kettle drum;that the wet flush of my fear is sharp
as the taste of an iron pipe, midwinter,
on a child’s hot tongue; and that sometimes,in a breeze, the delicate hairs on the nape
of my neck, just where you might bend
your head, might hesitate and brush your lips,hold a scent frail and precise as a fleet
of tiny origami ships, just setting out to sea.
