Perfect Scent

 

Chained and barred,
watched parents die.

A child makes nothing of it.
Nothing done with mother’s
neck still on a cuff. Father’s
saliva, vanilla pipe.

What returns God to bodies
scalded by boiling silver?

Thick hands, sweaty with steam.
Wool coated chaperone
peering through blinds
with big blue-eyes,
racing red worms.

Bastard of the Rue—
you are a child
meant to expire
soon as the cord was cut.

– after Peter Süskind’s Perfume

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