Maybe it’s time to stop wearing
a dead woman’s perfume
find my own
smell
be my own
woman
I met her when I was 11
looked up to her in that tinkering way
I have continually become besotted
with older women
those who knew more than I
all the secret clubs they belonged to
giving me entrance by default
knock, knock, admittance, change your coat
alter your mind, don another mask
take a turn at the carousel, the diamond
cut of your eyes as you churn out living
into the willing mouths of babes
go on lap it up …
drink yourself into thinking you’re not you
comfortable with anything but
your own skin
the smell of your life clinging to my escape
like a day old glass of wine
just drinkable, a little bitter
redolent in mid-day sun
as soft as fur
I think I’m old enough
to be myself now
which means
your smell
in that white bottle
that I can only buy in rare perfume shops
because it was long ago discontined
much as it reminds me
of being a young girl
trying to understand why
she had feelings for older women
(that were definitely not about seeking a mother)
those days are over
I’m old enough now to have had
my own children
and while I still
have a thing for older women
I’m not going to smell of you
and the memories
anymore
