Another night. Feels the same as yesterday.  Tonight Mae asked me “are there two suns with the Earth?” “Nope, just one”, I answered. “Then what is day plus day?” she asked me.

Day+Day=Thursday, I think, and Day-Day=weekend.

Very busy day again, with tired poem shards floating through the brainspace. What’s driving me tonight is the idea that my husband is about to drive home from being a Joan of his Own and I want to see him at the end of my day instead of having to hide away in here and poem.  So I’m going to poem fast and straight with very little hesitation, because WWJAD? What would Joan of Arc do, obvs. Did I use obvs correctly?

The only thing that got me today was the smell of the snow. We’ve gotten a gorgeous layer since I made it snow, and I swear it smells like spring. It’s not even slushy ectoplasm like it usually is now. It’s decently cold. But, I swear I can feel the globe arching its back and getting ready to stretch. That smell got me to thinking about how I dated someone once who told me a) he doesn’t have smell memory, and b) he never daydreamed.  Big red flags numbers one and two.  Perspective is a glory.

I think that I may be aurally-challanged but olefactorially gifted. I can recall an entire childhood in one whiff. The entire afternoon, from dipping beeswax candles to venison stew to skating in the dark with the ice candles, can come back in a tempest with one breath of February. Yes, I grew up in a fairy tale. What are your favorite smells? I’m going to keep asking questions until someone starts answering.

Here’s a poem:

Smell Memory

Before mean smells mean rotting, stinks are just interesting. So when a little girl earmuffs the instructions and plays near the waste pit outside the village, and her doll falls in,

it makes sense, there’s maybe no harm in going in after it.

Which never even happened, maybe.

and when that girl’s girls walk along Lake Pend Oreille, where the submarines deep, in the near fall,

and because of the drop dead whitefish brushstroke the shore, they pick up the corpses and carry them for minutes that feel like miles. Their mother feels like her mother, who warned again and again,

about the pit.

She dreams in river scents of eel grass and low mud, and spring when it blows out. This heart is kerosene and lamplight.

And woodsmoke, fish guts, and Off!

No one would believe that she cam smell sorry spring in the bones of January, and that sometimes in March she puts on sunscreen in the rain just for the beachballs.

Next time, she’ll clingwrap that smell, the aftershave and merlot that say stories,

And the next time she’ll hug him up around the neck, like a toddler, and sniff.

*************************

Whew. Done in time to see husbandpants. Smell anything today? I hope you are well, poemies.  Happy Thursday!

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