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.