Aromatherapy
by Betsy Mars
Hanging empty in the
closet are the outlines of
the physical reality of
you.
Frequently worn items
spared or
not yet relinquished
to moths or good will.
Just
your size, your style,
the outer shell of the
outer you.
If I hold them up to my
ear, will I hear the sea?
If I could fill them –
especially
that purple ultrasuede
coat that was custom made
for you –
would your earthly body
return?
A few bottles of your
nail polish solidify
in the medicine
cabinet. Your favorite colors.
One last effort to
maintain control
over one aspect of your
beauty that the cancer
(which took your hair,
bloated you,
took away your bladder
control and your lovely legs)
could not destroy.
The pull of the bed
finally
caused your muscles and organs
to atrophy but
your nails were your
domain.
Mostly – most
importantly – the remains of
a bottle of French
perfume
that was your staple
when I was small
and you were
an impossibly beautiful
scented goddess
and I was my truer
self.
In awe of you always, one
whiff upon cracking open
the cracking box is all
it takes to reconnect
me with you, with me
as I ride home to myself
on
an evaporating trail of
fumes.
* * * * *
"Aromatherapy"
was first published in the anthology A Poet Is A Poet
No Matter How Tall: Episode II: Attack of the Poems (For the Love of Words, 2014).
Author's
note: This is one of the first poems I wrote when I resumed writing after a dry
and difficult period in my life. I wrote it to submit to an anthology that a
friend was compiling to raise money for a local children’s hospital. I was (and
am) still coming to terms with both who my mother was and the fact that she is
no more. This poem was first published as a prose piece in that anthology (A Poet Is A Poet No Matter How Tall:
Attack of the Poems (For the Love of
Words, 2014)). I decided to alter the form but not the content to emphasize
various ideas. I have many possessions that I cherish, being fairly sentimental
by nature, but the perfume my mother wore during my childhood still has the
power to evoke a memory of her on an almost subliminal level, and I am very
grateful that it still holds its scent. I wanted to give it, and her, a second
life here.
Biography:
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.
