Recurring Smell
He’d taught me
to disbelieve
ghostly things.
Skinning and chopping
superstitions,
I cooked a poem.
My thoughts grew
under his eaves.
Desolation dominates me
after his funeral.
A vague shape vanishes
from my windowpane.
A stray dog
magnifies mystery,
barking.
Being his son,
I say boldly
this is an illusion.
Can he rest in peace,
when I’m restless?
His smell
mingled with an ointment,
I often feel.
It floats
in my evening room,
giving me goose-bumps.
Gravitational pull
of a profound love
creates wonders.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
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