Parosmia

Eliszabeth MacDougal

Distinguished in the lavender Varieties, we pass The blossoms between us

Nutmeg and cinnamon in your grounds While my mug hums with almond and vanilla

Sweet and simple, to curl in the glow Of your skin, complexity of sweat In the tangled hairs tickled by my nose You pull your arm down, kiss me silly

I think it’s sinuses at irst until you call From the ER And can’t breathe And I can’t smell the peppermint oil So I’m sure I know before I know for sure

When you begin to wake For more than leeting moments in the day And we can share one room again Our ardor has no odor And appetite is gone

November and December pass in haste I snif my vials regularly, glad I can But the mouthwash has an expired taste And the lavender scrub we made’s gone bad

The bag of cofee must have rancid oils So I switch to tea Yellow onions at the grocery smell of rot I buy the green The air around me reeks of unfamiliar My sister rolls the window down Tells me, it’s me

Our household stank of sickness growing up I know the taste of croup, the smell of strep Before the onset, but this Is irst an illness odorless That as its calling card Warps the fragrance known and loved the best