She knows the length of air
will stiffen towels, shirts, jeans,
but doesn’t care.
She likes watching, from the kitchen window,
how sunlight pushes shadow
along draping cloth.
Later, folding sheets against her chest,
she inhales. How do you name this? The balm
of this scent, fresh
off the line.
Jennifer L Freed mostly writes poems, which appear or are forthcoming in various journals and anthologies. Her website is jfreed.weebly.com
I asked my father what he’d miss most and he talked about the odors of men, and the fragrances of women, about the distinct aromas places held for the time you were in them — crowded rooms, vacant houses, city streets after a thunder shower, country roads during a heavy snow.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Mother in evening dress and mink hugs me. Chanel No. 5 and a hint of dead animal deliver separation.
Her hand stroking my face bestows Jergen’s lotion, a thread of connection as she closes the door.
Alone in bed, I stargaze and clutch Snoopy, whose fur smells only of me.
Beth keeps her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket in her safe deposit box next to a Confederate dollar bill. You can find her blog at www.sideglimpses.com.