Parfumerie

art1
Parfumerie

The crushed violets in your drenched hand
smell of nothing, the ionone numbs the senses –
Like ghosts they cannot wither, being as they are
already gone into some nervy hinterland.
Josephine, you called me, the shadow on my breast
blue like a bruise or a bird’s wing, or something
chemical . The more you called, the less I thrived
as though the name were not freely given
but stolen from another’s face, a mask.
Such wasted flowers I did not ask for
reappear from time to time but never linger
Now I keep my hair pinned tight
to stop it winding
round your finger.

 

Veronica Aldous from my book Mortal

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About Veronica Aldous

Writer and artist, Veronica is a lecturer is Fine Art and Creative Writing. Her first book of poems, 'Moon Cinema' is now available on Lulu.com. Now there is also 'Mortal' her second book.
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