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Her
Bedroom Smells
Mark
Forrester
Her bedroom
smells
of my
childhood, not hers.
The walls
are not feminine,
flowery or
frilly.
Her sheets
smell of glue and paint
for model
airplanes.
The four
drawers in her bureau
open to the
scent
of spring
grass ground hard into denim;
of a worn
glove, newly oiled;
of the
inside of a blue tent, when it is raining;
of hot
chocolate outside, because it is December
While she
lies sleeping,
her hair is
keeping me awake
with
the smell of boys' play,
boys'
youths,
and
home doors endlessly opening.
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