Sillage

by Betsy Mars

I dream of genie, on a trail of vapors

you come, as I crack open the cracked box -

I slip through a scented wormhole of space

and time to the heart of the matter.

In another dimension, I follow close behind

on the essence of you - the base notes

left in the bottle.

My conscious mind amnesiac,

but my primitive nose remembers.

Scent remains unperturbed.

A complex perfume, imported,

outlasting you and your body -

French, at your service, no memorial  

except your legacy of language and luxury.

The box sits on the shelf, idle, until I need you;

and then, with one whiff I follow,

transported to a splintered realm –

wholey, holey, Holy.

Shadowed and strung with trip wires:

nurture and neglect, ice and fire.

Memories dissipate like a genie

after three wishes are spent.

My first wish and only wish would be that

this fragrance lingers until I too depart,

leaving my own olfactory trace in my wake.

The bottle tightly stoppered to preserve

my mothered memories perfumed–

only the best notes remain.

* * * * *

"Sillage" was first published by Silver Birch Press.

Betsy Mars is a southern California poet who is in a perpetual battle with change – finally coming to some kind of a truce, and at times even love and acceptance. She is an educator, mother, animal lover, and over-excited traveler. Her poetry has been published in a number of places, both online and in print, most recently in Sheila-Na-Gig, The Ekphrastic Review, and Red Wolf Journal. Writing has given her a means to explore her preoccupation with mortality and her evolving sense of self.