MY CHILDHOOD SMELLED LIKE
cabbage, salted tomatoes, and cracklings.
the flume of dust I awakened when my fingers
untangled the shag carpet’s red mane.
crayons I melted against the wood stove,
our terrier’s feet, with that same scent of fire.
night crawlers, shad, algae, and lake,
blanketing our boat after a morning of fishing.
Dad’s scrapyard, fragrant with hot tar
and smoke from his brown cigarettes,
acres of rust and grease, a twisting maze
leading to one abandoned refrigerator after another,
each filled with jars and jars of ancient rot.
fireworks and muddy gravel roads,
leadplant, elderberries, horsemint.
Grandma’s lilac bushes,
reeking of booze from the bar next door,
their purple bunches lighting up the dark
with neon liquor perfume.
SURPRISE DAWN
rows of cedars push through slats of slain brothers
dense boughs gushing berries
frosted with moonlight
my bike light skims twilight from creamy sidewalks
a premature dawn blaring from the flashing bulb
illuminating the wind’s fabric
in rustling leaves
I lean far from the sweep of branches
but my jacket catches the emerald froth
and propels me into the flustered chatter of birds awakened
and tossed about by my helmet’s pillage of their feathered hearth
