Non Scents

No one wants to talk about it

the way we smell one another

—Not purposely 

but just the same

we smell each other

Our sex

Not the act (though that, too)

But the biology

And not just that

But

Our cells reconfiguring

Expelling and taking in

Disintegrating, marinating, 

gestating, 

and rebuilding

 

Kneeling too close

or

Standing too near 

You’ll know the things, 

you don’t want to know

 

the older gentleman in the produce aisle

choosing lettuce

Off-gases the embarrassment of controlled incontinence

The faintly cheesy waft that escapes

from the folds between grandma’s downy, thin skin

The telltale fragrance of those heavily-scented bargain pads

the Mexican girls used in junior high

STILL

lingers in bathrooms

whether shared or freshly vacated

 

It’s NOT

the scent of dumped waste 

But of flesh

In all its incarnations

Young, old

Prepubescent 

Or

Perimenopausal

Doors opening 

And closing

Untouched or defiled

Entering or

exiting

 

It’s the sharp eye-stinging cling 

of sauteed onions 

tucked away 

in a headlock 

beneath an arm

A dragon’s fiery breath 

come to singe the brows of early morn

the stale familiarity

of a 4th grade boy’s fart

OR the wretched unpleasantness of a grown man’s

— particularly, if he can’t hold his dairy

 

How the sickly scent of garbage perfumes

the strep throat afflicted 

invading the air and space around them 

lying in wait 

for fever to infect 

another—

a cousin to the slick bright red blotches, 

of the moist heat of skin fungus.

The removal of shoes

brings with it reminders 

of a newly opened bag of Fritos 

And the crevice, where thigh bone meets pelvis,

bakes

like yeasted dough 

set to rise in a warm room 

 

And 

that 

final labored bouquet 

of 

acrid 

waning 

breath—

the day before 

their

death

No.

 

No one wants to hear about that.

It’s all non-scents.

 

Vanessa Nix Anthony

January 2019