I want to smell the memory of you

passing on the street. Bells of Idlewild,

 

orange groves, nine paper roses, bayou

salt flats, the way you sang, You Wicked Child.

 

Wicked musk. First the cleft where your backbone

merged with your ass and then the sweat. The whine

 

as my hips grind. “Telegraph boy,” you groaned

out the words. “C’est bon!” Yes, it was good. Spine

 

bent, eyes wide, thighs akimbo. I walk bent

in boots but your scent is not here. Red dirt,

 

Haitian balm, incense. None of them were yours.

Or ours. A hint of desert mint, cement,

 

quisling’s room. It was the last scent that hurt.

Hospice’s razors, flu, IVs, bedsores.