Old Becomes New

I'm reposting two poems that I once posted here when they were just written. This last semester I revised these poems, among others, quite a bit so I'm reposting them again here. I'll post the other ones I revised later too. Best to serve a little at a time.

Potpourri

The engine stills & begins to cool.

I chuck keys in my coat pocket

& slip out the door to the gap between

me & home, ready to rush inside

again, slate sky somber above me.

Then I smell potpourri from a bonfire of

dry flowers smoldering in the backyard

& I remember vials of orange

& lemon oil in a gift-store with a girl.

We uncapped the small bottles

one by one, curious as to how

each tart scent changed

the way we felt. I’ve forgotten

what I bought for her; it didn’t last.

I was not yet wrapped with memories

like bouquets laced with perfumes,

so the fragrances fell away & were gone.

Winter held us at the window, where we

warmed our hands together. Then we hurried

back to my car, missing the crisp air

& skirting around patches of ice.

In a few weeks I’d spend

first Christmas without her, then years.

I adjust my scarf, crunch leaves,

& reach the welcome mat in moments.

My cold hands dig for house keys; I’m still

breathing the strange smell like crushed

lavender on her hair. Then it’s behind me.

My room is dusted with carpets, tiles,

& closed windows. Day after blue day,

aromas grow like vines against my gate.

In an empty January, I live beside bushes of

dried rose petals & cedar branches beckoning

my return, hand in hand with ghost perfumes.

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Reading a book on its first-day release,

I eat in big bites. Words dribble from my lips

like crumbs. In a dim-lit attic where no one

will find me, it doesn’t matter that I skim

some pages like overdone lima beans, or skip

to the end to see if it is satisfying and sweet

like strawberry pie. Footsteps clatter in

distant rooms, different worlds. The scuttle

born of a floorboard mouse doesn’t disturb.

Instead, it becomes part of the meal, mixing

with the steak of the story, tender and rare.

After starving for days, I am hungry enough

to swallow everything: the rain ringing

in a catch pan, my mother calling me

down for dinner, even the moonlight

spreading its white cloth over the floor.

What is the difference between me

and the child sleeping in the thin sheets

of this book? I turn him over and over

like a restless dream and see him sleepwalk

from his hand-crafted campfire to my attic.

It is night. The time for feasting is passed

and my mind lumbers with a round belly

of ideas. My leg-bones grow as I digest

what it means to be filled

from first to final page.