My most recent poetic publication, which I’m honored to have on Silver Birch Press.
by Betsy Mars
I dream of genie, on a trail of vapors
you come, as I crack open the cracked box —
I slip through a scented wormhole of space
and time to the heart of the matter.
In another dimension, I follow close behind
on the essence of you — the base notes
left in the bottle.
My conscious mind amnesiac,
but my primitive nose remembers.
Scent remains unperturbed.
A complex perfume, imported,
outlasting you and your body —
French, at your service, no memorial
except your legacy of language and luxury.
The box sits on the shelf, idle, until I need you;
and then, with one whiff I follow,
transported to a splintered realm —
wholly, holey, Holy.
Shadowed and strung with trip wires:
nurture and neglect, ice and fire.
Memories dissipate like a genie
after three wishes are spent.
My first and only wish would be…
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