perfume  •  April 2023

my sister wears a perfume called
“beyond the plume of reasonable doubt”

  which smells of dust and blood and rum-soaked oranges
and empty bedrooms and the gentle constant scrape of
nail polish being chipped off, of
runs forming in stockings, of
turning the corner quickly
in the hallways
of empty hotels
their carpets damp with guilt
and duplicity –
of begging for silence.

the scent eats strangers for breakfast.
it writes their names in long lists on her walls
in hunger-red letters
salts the stains, bleaches the silk
turns the lights off
puts her to bed.
in her dreams, it plays
“the london suite pt. 2 – chelsea”
on repeat, the piano notes thrumming against her
temples, pulling and twisting
new curls into
the crown of
her hair.

my sister disappears for days
but the smell never leaves. it sings in the shower
and makes me drinks to calm my nerves
so that i soak my teeth in grenadine
so that my fear becomes a dance
pustules of love silenced, suffocated
like burnt umber, like the bite of
acetone.