along the alley of my evening walks
the dumpsters in which we decanted
the sand and the salt gathered between our sleeps
thread like some dirt beads
past which we gracefully flaunt our days.
in one of those dumpsters i can trace
the scent of my younger shades of pink
and the wooden notes of my marrow –
in another i can trace
styrene mirroring the heat of july
and dried red drops
garnished with glass shards –
here is a once-bitten apple
and there the flies found nest
in the corpse of a cat.
i inhale deeply, almost voluptuously,
filling my lungs with the odour of our slow death –
the melting asphalt makes it so easy for my nostrils
to travel in time!
in my childhood,
on the same alley the dumpsters smelled like crashed paper planes
and peach kernels and some empty bottle of cheap perfume
or simply like saturday cleaning residue and sunday silence.
never like chicken bones, never like plastic,
never like nighttime.
ironically, the bitter taste gracing my hour
resembles partly to beer and partly to sage,
and i wonder,
how long will it take for these dumpsters
to smell like dust?
© 2015 Liliana Negoi