(Dedicated to chemotherapy)
Steal the scent of aftermath,
Of rivers, ponds, waterfalls, of
Mangled limp leaves, blown
Around. Fog, water’s mystical state
Lifted the ground up by noon
Do the arithmetic:
What’s left outside after a storm?
Rain leaves its distinct message:
More precisely, less understood
Oily ascension from the earth
Reaches to encounter rising
Mountain roads. Projecting
On a green screen we stop
Acting, instead slowly, slippery,
and wet, waiving goodbye to my
Now-relinquished memory.
Mirrors from lighthouses beam
A spot where the words hide.
Vast oceans of gray crevices
Foggy and neglected, recollect
Years before, a pear-green sky
Ripened and began blowing.
Curtains beckoning with arms
Waving to the operatives
Waiting for instructions.
No signs yet.
Finally the storm bursts
Through a bedroom door
Met by an unkept little dog
One that came with her name.
“Petrichor.” The memory
Satisfied finally, for
Here’s the word for the oily scent,
Rising up with a heave to hear
Earth’s sigh of relief
When water rises after it falls
And worms rejoice in its muddled
Grounds. Mud made puddling
Mid afternoon humid
A swampy mystery
Finally rests in its ground.