Permeation

A poem on the supernatural storm that seizes the atmosphere of a perfumers workspace.

When my cat knocks the vial

of synthetic civet from my desk

and it breaks–

something carnal, almost human

seeps into the floor–

I do not blame her.

She does not understand this new order,

if it is one–

rows of liquids breathing softly

where my essays used to live,

handwritten labels curling at the corners,

half-organized by impulse,

by what I want to smell again.

The air in the apartment has shifted–

thick with bergamot splitting open,

jasmone bruising sweet, 

whispers of 19-letter compounds

threading through the draft 

from the window.

Blotters bloom in my hands.

I press them to my nose–

again, again–

like evidence,

like doubt,

until everything blurs. 

It all lingers. 

In the rings stained on wood,

under my nails,

in the sleeve of yesterday’s sweater,

And still–

I lean closer, 

breathing it in

mid-process,

before it knows

what it is.

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