Issue 15, January/February 1998
Robin Sommo - Poem

Cut glass, smooth glass, colored, clear,
brass tops, glass tops, stoppers and caps.
I haven't opened any of them in years.

Sometimes I think I'll take a stopper out
and trace its tip along my palm
and carry that scent with me all day.
I never do, now.  

I'm partial to florals and spices.  An
undertone of warmth, a top note of sweetness.

Scent is intimate.
I never walked in a cloud.

I never walked in a cloud, but lightly
touched wrists, and the base of my throat.
My throat remembers.  I rub the spot,
thinking maybe, just for myself.
Thinking I'll unstopper
one of these lovely flasks and 
lightly touch my pulse points, knowing
I'd then trace perfume
down the insides of my arms, touch 
the backs of my knees, brush a fingertip
between my breasts, rub a tiny circle
in the small of my back.  And then
splash it in my hands like lotion,
rub it in my hair.  Smear my face
and let my blood absorb the scent,
carry it to every capillary, and
lie, drunk with it, alone.

When I die, boil my bones clean.
Rub them with wax and lilac blossoms,
and I will share that scent with heaven.