This old perfume
in the creamy curvaceous bottle
looks and smells
like a bride
filled with hope
lust, wonder
and security,
its blanketing grace
cloaking chilled shoulders
with protective serenity.
Cinnamon, clove,
crimson red rose,
sage and sensuality
provides transport
to the misty day when
dense clouds loomed
smokey and thick
in fifty degree
late September skies,
parting only
for that abracadabra moment
when relentless rains stop
and the bride floats out
upon a lungful of
At Last,
filling the air
with sunshine
and bullshit.
Bitterness can’t help
bleeding through to memories,
doing them injustice
because I deserve them-
pure, and beautiful memories-
unscathed by future seepage
through time’s layers,
whispering bitter words
into the bride’s ears,
whispering things
she already knew
deeply and painfully,
but chose to ignore
for the sake of happiness,
maybe. Just this once.
Happiness,
unadulterated and entirely lovely.
(Trembling hands
transfer shivers
to the giggly bouquet,
ferns wiggling,
autumn berries bobbing,
lilies sprinkling
a dusting
of orange pollen
into the wind,
exaggerated nerves
filling the air with “Amour”
and damned if this
isn’t exactly what love
smells like)
Renee Novosel
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2014