here, I smell—
myself
on the approaching
car in the street's cloth interior, subtly
under notes
of normal menstrual function,
clementine oranges,
lavender swirled
with tea tree oil, all mingling
with oniony
schoolbook pages.
I can tell—my time has come
for the stage,
the clocks have reset,
the season is about to change.
for the stage,
the clocks have reset,
the season is about to change.
I hear—the very sound
of this empty thing inhaling,
subduing and
bating its breath as I stand
and stretch
and can now feel
its insides rumbling,
quivering in time
with those footfalls
which presently
plod upon the steps outside,
like it's
not me,
but the whole place—that's
bracing itself—for her
return.