When I was little, my Mumma taught me
how to make perfume from the rose petals
in my Nan's English garden.

The grass out there was always soggy
but I never wore shoes, never wore anything.
      Flowers are best picked in the ****.

She gave me a wicker basket and said,
Watch out for the thorns and the slugs.

She picked her petals slow;
only took the nice ones.

But I didn't care about wilted edges
or gnawed worm holes.
I grabbed them all in rough fist-fulls.

Mumma tossed petals above my head
and let them flit down around me,
so I could parade threw them and pretend
I was the Queen of everything.

When our baskets were full she filled a deep ceramic bowl
with hot, cloudy water from the temperamental sink.

We pushed the petals in and broke the torrid surface.

Now, She said
It's time to let them steep. 

So she gave me Hasbiro milk bottles and chocolate buttons
while I helped her hang the linens outside
on that revolving white rack,
and we waited for our Eau du flor to brew.