by me, 2023

White people who said porte-cochère
when they meant carport,
winters on dry lawns
and clean-enough shag;
and because of the persistent flatulence
of a paper mill nearby,
the wind was always tinged with farts on pine.
Added to the plumbing that didn’t flush well
in the brick ranch and my grandfather’s waste
in a hospital bag, and my memories of holidays
took on a human, inoffensive waft of anus like a perfume trail
drifting in every room.

Christopher’s house smelled like retail off-gassing
and detergent and boxed food.
It saturated couches and the spongy fabric of cars,
velour or perforated urethane or corduroy —
your weight would throw up from the upholstery
a spore puff of cigarette ash and fryer grease.
Where there were kids there were also smells of juice and old milk
and cheese dust and a layer more,
that to me evoked urine or glue;
in cars that belonged to families the patina cured and lifted into a balm
that it seemed right to me to call: plain oatmeal.
My brain could curl endlessly around that.
In a school the same fragrance dialed up with concentrate
cleaners that were nuclear pink and green
and a more matter of fact piss smell that in my mind
grew inseparable from the thought of OshKosh B’gosh,
silly marshmallow letters for small bodies who still got
gold stars for making it to the toilet on time.
The tufted back seat of a Chevy Caprice
or the mildewy mismatched value store bowl brushes
in a school bathroom shared an essence —
discharge, balled up kleenex or tissue with lipstick butterflies
or blood or snot, stashed and sun-blooming in a hot parked car
and unblushing gross in a public bathroom — aerosol, talcum, coffee, shit flecks,
pads; purses, arguments, blackheads. In bathroom mirrors you watch
a xerox you wipe or wash or criticize;
from the back seat of Mrs. Levy’s car I looked at my eyes
in the rearview and believed I could smell time:

And felt like I understood Madeline L’Engle better,
angels all feathers and eyes, monsters that were serious and indifferent.
In Mrs. Levy’s car I always felt nausea
like stagefright, sickening coiled potential, and little bleached scales
of fluid crust and food crumbs, the plain oatmeal element
for fingertips to find and press into the velvet piping
that broke the seat between you and me,
ground into the hooked fibers for Shiva to dance over
with the next car wash vacuum.