by Chris Dungey
These ingredients were printed
on a crème-colored envelope wedged
between toilet tank and wall—
an unopened sachet or potpourri.
We couldn’t tell, but there were red
line sketches—of leaves, sprigs,
poinsettia. When for?
The Holidays were past—but “Scents
of the Season” it read, in English.
Still, through February the pouch
waited to be poured
into an exhausted vase
of faded shavings, tiny pine
cones, heather thistle. The pewter
lid emitted no scent yet. Perhaps
someone was saving the essence
of Pommes et Cannelle; to rise
from the steam of a bath, the skylight
cranked open a few inches
to admit the lengthening dusk.