New Smell

New Smell

Eight or ten times
I looked over my shoulder
at emptiness glinting
back at me,
a teasing cacophony
of almost-mirrors,
the bottles dancing
reflections
across their curvatures
an amplification of motion
when a tissue flutters
a hundred-fold
in the prismatic grasp
of glass.

Eight or ten times
I realized the scent
triggering my turn
did not herald the approach
of a new conquerer
or concubine,
but rather a small change
in identity,
for adjustment is slow
where scent is concerned;
the nose is last to let go.
Long after faces fade,
lilac will conjure tears
in the crow's-foot crevices
as the sun-filled yard
hedged with purple
yields to a curtained,
perfumed interior
on the day of the last
"I love you."

The silent sense sliding
up the nostril to the brain
slinking from fold to fleshy fold
and striking unexpected
to summon images,
sights forgotten
by all but the nose.
So when I glance
that eighth or tenth time
expecting someone
other than me
it's only because I'm unused
to this scent that isn't mine.