Somebody somewhere once thought
some wheres of women’s bodies
really ought to be scented.
As if the secondary fruit of the womb
was just too much for them to bear.
As if the swamp and sweat
of the saltiest clam could be masked
with padded sachets of potpourri.
Mayhaps they said, “Scent that snatch
like Midsummer Shakespeare.
Spritz it with perfumes of dewy blooms
and douse it with rods to smell of summer’s eve”
rather than that rusty aroma
that oxidized rush of a flashflood
after a hard rain in red-rocked canyons.
Ashy Blacksheep is a writer ceaselessly fascinated with fractals, kaleidoscopes, and interconnection. She holds her Bachelor’s degree in Literature & Creative Writing but will never be finished studying the craft. Her poems have appeared in Fine Lines, The Minison Project, and Not Deer Magazine among others. See what else she’s been up to on her website, https://sites.google.com/view/AshyBlacksheep or her socials @AshyBlacksheep
Latest posts by Ashy Blacksheep (see all)
- Scented Snatches - 12th February 2023