Let this room remember me. Let it fill with my scent.

The scent of valerian root, chardonnay, the air of musk and smoke,
damp moss upon the old tombstone, the wet sapling pine.

The late evening sun is the day’s last attempt to sway me.
She spills her warmest rays over the peacock rug, subjugates herself and genuflects
over the altars, over my desk and kitchen countertop.

But I pay her no mind; I wait patiently for the night.
I lay my offerings down, light the sage and toss the milk and honey out the backdoor.

The moon doesn’t know me any better than I know her.
We kiss-and-tell, run-and-chase, pushmi-pullyu in our conversation
until the darkness is through.

Then I rest. Then I walk the morning.
Trees brace against the growing sun, the dandelions leap,
the foxtails bow their heads under the breeze, and consecrate their crowns with the light.

But I pay it no mind. I retreat,
into the curtains drawn and the foggy dim of the chamber
I retreat. Hold my hands up to the ceiling and fall into a timed dream, silently seeking,
silent as a kindness done and a hallow moment, finished.

This room of mine I love. I love her like wild wolves I will never see.

When alone, Kahlil Gibran comforts me. When in throe
I take the peacock rug outside and beat it.

This place of mine, smells like autumn leaves, cake batter and castor oil,
lemon remnants and dusty shelves

full of streaks from pruned fingers writing love notes to herself.
Books that have not been taken care of, full of hard affections, fervent fervent love.

First published on Poet’s Corner August 17th, 2016