We had bought sheets that we perfumed with lavender.
But the smell never left.

—Patrick Modiano

We smell death in poked Styrofoam and stiff-
stemmed carnations.  Comforting stuff 

in a cologne’s covering, thinning to turning 
away, breath unlacing.  We smell splintering

mist over a field’s fresh-turned dirt, a father 
pointing.  We smell report cards and carbon 

copies, Naugahyde stitched 
into a purse, a mother looking for her wallet.  

Death is reworking the sweet 
stench of used equipment within our living.  

We smell the taped-up odor of trying, the earthy 
slug of outlived machinery, crinoline 

on lay-away, the viewing hours.  We smell
withering within muscles and pale, recoloring 

facial stubble, companions 
in parlors and cosmetics, air this world left us 

working raw in the clean cut 
it tears through abloom, the wild mimosa.

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