Aspiration

Which maternal slap in the face,
which tree I sledded into
settled my sense of smell
into its quiet corner. Breathe in. Goodbye

to the morning coffee I drank
from the age of ten, the lavender soap
I loved, the smell of mushroom scum
at the horses' trough. Later

the slow shutting down and everything
smelling like rice bleached to dust,
celery in a vacuum, saliva, sweat, sex,
the empty potpourri. Instead

tasting the sounds of words: oolong
and marjoram acacia mimosa,
flowers I have never seen or smelled.
I curl my useless beaky nose around

the vowels. They hum with intimations,
close calls. Down in the fruity soil,
without a whiff of what's ahead, ferny and mephitic--
such sherbets--the last pink exhalation.

copyright 2005 Annette Basalyga
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