Incense

My mother's bedroom never had a fragrance

Of its own. She had her parents' photograph

On her dresser, redolent of sandalwood

and dried carnations.

The lacquer of her dressing chair was polished

By countless strokes of her children's hands squeezing

The maple curve behind her back. Not a trace

Of resin's odor

Rose through that wood. No soiled clothing spotted

The room nor did dusty carpets hang a pall

Of smell to mix with the odor of stale bread.

Food was never there.

She had the feminine assortment of myrrh,

Jasmine, and musks mixed among the tiny boxes,

Tubes, and bottles that still remind me only

Of her, nothing else.

Yet their potence remained contained for the nights

When she alone could fling, measured, to Ceres

Those aromas that would not linger past dawn,

Nor tease her sons' airs.

So I rarely lingered there, except mornings

When the perfume of sleep still clung to my Mom's

Hair and my toddlers nose would lead my way

Against her shoulder.

Then only the promise of the kitchen's rich scents

Nearly filling the house with their wakefulness

Could pull me from her bedside and she would rise

To make memories.