Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s
world; he would do anything to smell her perfume
once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday,
the perfect first date, a moon-
lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train
about to crash and nobody was dancing.  

She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing
was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s
face, not his own. Limbo was a train
journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume
and the never ending sun, the never ending moon.
The name of the days changed but Monday

was no different from Tuesday or last Monday.
She wondered if disabled people thought dancing
ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon
was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s
uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume
and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train

wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains
were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday
blues? And some women will never afford perfume
and would never be taken out dancing,
it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s
wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon.

She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon,
of him passing through a dark forest on a train
coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s
gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday
and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing,
she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume.





He was dead, she would never replace the perfume.
She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon
throwing herself around in life, dancing
like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train
but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday
all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier.

The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and
everything was mundane especially the moon.
People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.

That sweet scent wafted in the warm breeze
the moment before we met.
From then on my life was changed
love came with your perfume.
Each of my emotions in hyper drive
until then not alive.

Your perfume was so intoxicating
a doting slave I became.
One direction to achieve your attention
passion drew me under it's spell.
This energy and intensity could not last
one day a shadow was cast!

I became yesterdays man brushed away
when somebody else was snared.
Like me the perfume pulled them within
my heart shattered as I watched.
Another laying prostrate at your feet
no way could I take defeat.

Jealousy never far from the passion of love
not caring when I sighted you.
Unable to control my basic human instincts
attacking forcibly my rival.
Feeling betrayed and the only one hurt
soon my body would hit the dirt!

Standing here a noose around my neck
guilty of deeply loving you!
Even as the trap door beneath me is released
the perfume will linger always.
Never regretting that deep emotional ride
you will be with me inside!

Love and jealousy unceasing like your perfume!

The Foureyed poet.

My mothers perfume is sweet
but not like candy or fruit
my mothers perfume is champagne when she exhales
and wet concrete when she sobs in the dark
my mothers perfume is laughter written on
her face with $40 eyeliner
that does not smudge when she cries
my mothers perfume is her hair in my face
when i fall asleep next to her on the couch
my mothers perfume is not a smell
but a feeling in my chest when I hug her

She had a perfume that smelled like jasmine when she woke me up in the morning and like roses when she tucked me in at night

It was the same perfume sprayed from the same bottle, but it smelled different every time I visited her

Her perfume translated her feelings into delicate smells … smells I will never be able to forget

The same perfume is still sprayed from the same bottle …
but now … it smells like fear

She no longer wears that perfume … “it makes me sad” she says …
It makes us all sad! …

Its drizzling droplets brushes against our senses awakening sedated memories …
Memories of …

Of grandpa’s happy eyes, warm embracing voice and tender sheltering hug … he was the kind of person whose presence can be felt from a distance. He would smile every time your eyes meet his as if he was noticing you for the very first time …

Of mother’s childhood dreams tucked carefully in her braided hair …
Of baby brother’s golden straight hair and wide curious brown eyes

Of our tiny apartment whose windows allowed light to enter only from her room … the burgundy colored velvet salon chairs neatly covered by off white sheets … the noisy fridge who made sure everyone noticed me steeling ice-cream at midnight …

Grandma’s perfume harbors our memories …
Its droplets carry away our happiness leaving us stinking of fear!

Mom is cleaning out her perfumes today,
hands me a bottle,
says this is what she wore when she was my age.
The musk shakes onto my palms,
the bottle fogs at my sweat.
I am remembering her scent.
The sharp bottles of Armani Code Blue
stare up at me from her vanity.

When I was 5 years old,
I wanted to look like mami,
so I used her cherry blush,
her **** lipsticks,
capping them  before twisting them down,
opening her perfumes and painting my legs with them.
My mom came home,
saw the powder spilling on the mirror,
and cried until her limbs shook.

I am remembering the basement.
I was 8 and shivering,
mom sank into the swell of a rain slapped carpet,
grabs my wrists, wrings them into the shape
of a J’adore bottle,
wrapped and twisted and golden,
asks me why all I do is fight her.
Her favorite perfume stains my arms red.
This was the first time I ever felt scared of my own mother.

My mother and I are different in our scents.
While I smell like blood and lipstick,
she is as aggressive as the perfume she wears,
the bottles in her lines in her bedroom,
Today she decided to get rid of them.
I hope she knows
no amount of perfume can make me forget the cigarettes,
the kicking,
the mangled wrists,
the drips of her perfume on my eyelashes.

I am wearing her perfume today.
The musk grabs my wrists and strips them.
I hope she knows that I forgive her.
That the smell of her is still with me.

Remember when you were a small child
And you had your first real person crush?
And everyone thought it was cute because it was so mild?
You're young and innocent so there was no rush

Remember when you were ten
And you liked that slightly older boy?
And you're parents said "No don't see him"
You didn't get it, they just wanted to annoy

Remember when you were sixteen
And you were crying in your bedroom
He told you you two were not to be seen
Your mom came in and gave you perfume

"Hello baby girl I want to make it better
But heartbreak is something that must happen
I suggest you write him an angry letter
You might even want to slap him

"Things like this are always expected
You're beautiful, gorgeous, lovely, worth it
You're something that has been perfected
You'll become happy again. bit by bit

"I am always here, I am never far
I won't judge you or make you feel bad
I will try to hug away all the scars
I don't ever want my baby to be sad

"I brought you this perfume to remind you
That even the essence of cherries can be trapped
Let this perfume be a reminder to
Never let anyone have you wrapped

"You're you and no one can take that away
So aspire to be the opposite of this container
Fly free and let your branches sway
Hold your own brush, make yourself the painter"

You love that perfume, buy it all the time
And you hate that perfume in the same way
You use it as a reminder, a small little chime
Of all the wonderful things you're mom does say

In the months before my wedding,
I searched for a special perfume
high and low, sampling scents,
making everyone crazy with
"What do you think of this one?"
My reason for obsessing was this:
to smell this fragrance
and be instantly taken back to the day I married
the man that I love; my best friend.
Because scents can trigger memories.
When we smell, the scents and odors around us
get routed through our olfactory system
which, in short, is closely connected
to the regions of the brain
that handle our memories and emotions

So one day, I opened a package
which held one of many, many, samples I purchased inside.
with notes of gardenia, jasmine, rose and a personal favorite, violet leaf - I thought I would enjoy it
however, this small vial held more than I ever expected.
I removed the stopper, and took a big whiff...

A warm floral scent, with a soapy musk, a slight spice
Suddenly, without any warning...
I was in a small, white bedroom, with two twin beds
a table between them, and on top, the lamp filled with shells.
The window with lacey curtains.
The two small shelves on the right wall with trinkets -
the dolls at the foot of the bed by the door
I could see the closet, with all the special clothes
the ones us grandkids wore to play dress up
and there, in the middle of everything, was the vanity.
That special vanity we couldn't touch, but secretly did
I could see the old makeup on top the warm stained, wooden vanity with the big mirror,
and the little bench
which sitting on made you feel so special.
In the middle of the memory,
I could smell it... this perfume
I knew it wasn't the same, but it smelled exactly like that room
like her...
like my grandma

I could almost hear her in the kitchen, yelling behind the closed door
"You kids better not get in my stuff!"
she always let us play in that special room
   that little bedroom, once shared by siblings
always mad when we played with her things,
but she never stopped letting us play in that room

I remembered where I was,
and felt the wet tears in my eyes
But I kept smelling... (inhale)
hair rollers, and combs
doilies and the sandwich cookies
her black as night coffee and how she drank it at all hours
the giant backyard, and how it seemed to stretch for miles - a place to get lost and have adventures
the clothesline we would always hang off of,
   for which we always got into trouble
the kitchen island, and the barstools
   grandma always got on to us about kicking our short legs and marking up her cabinets
the special character cups collected over the years
that were for just us kids to drink from
I can see all the fridge magnets,
pictures and trinkets of all the places she and grandpa had been - all the places they planned to go
I remember Christmas, and the tree shaped birthday cake for Jesus
how she made us sing Happy Birthday to Jesus
and the mice, oh the mice
   only Grandma, only Leila James
   would collect figurines of something she was afraid of

I remember where I am, in my room
but I can smell her perfume
and can hear her sass and her jokes
   I can hear her speaking the colorful language of a sailor
I remember the weeks we stayed with grandma and grandpa, when a hurricane took our home
   In all the frustration and heartbreak
   she told me it was rough, but I needed to be strong

I remember when I am
I remember that she has too slowly forgotten
No matter how strong the will
the mind does not remember
but I will remember, my small piece
I know so many others knew her better than me
We all remember when she began to forget
She started asking all of us grandkids
"When are you getting married?"
and now I know I can't look in the aisles and see her face

I never thought I would be without a grandmother on my wedding day
I never really thought I would ever get married
But I certainly never imagined without three fourths of a generation

I remember the night I wrote these memories down
the day she died, a day that was strange,
a day that I knew hurt her husband and children,
a day I knew she was finally at peace.
I remember the decision I made that night...
When I smell this fragrance, I smell her
maybe it only smells like her to me
I know if she were here, that is how she would smell
standing next to me in pictures
and telling me to shrink down because I was taller than her
On my wedding day, I want to know the ones I have lost are present in spirit
I want to wear my grandma's perfume

Death is a perfume
That can be smelt
Any time in life.

For the odor is
Death telling us
That the string is
Now cut on this life.

The perfume of
Death invites many
To stay, to dispose
Of this shell,
To let the nature
Take it away.

The perfume of
Death is always
Around, as long
As those living
Pass and the
Shell does decay.

I always thought that I would always have the same favorite perfume forever. I honestly thought no other scent could be more enticing and lovely. But lately, it's not my perfume that is forever lingering.
You're in my bed,
You're in my hair,
You're in my head,
You're everywhere.
You're my favorite perfume<3
I could wear you in January, I could wear you in June,
I could wear you forevermore,
You're far more special than Juicy Couture, because I sure can't buy you in a bottle at the store.