The Scent Of The Night She Was Born

 

It’s still not too late
as she rises by a hearth
to a knock at the door
this early evening,

carefully wrapping
herself in a long robe
from the night air,
and whoever is there,
so they will think her
a respectable whore.

Yet she sees no one
from a soft light
at the threshold
in the thin clean air
of the Chilean Andes,
with a scent of
cordwood for a fire.

Steps onto the porch,
cane chairs are stacked,
brought to her by men
who buy them from
her as payment.

She is handsome,
still a young woman
but not too much.
She remembers it
like this and no other.

She sits to wait for the
first moon’s light, and
forgets the cigarette
that she lit indoors as
it dwindles & goes out.

And a new memory
tries to surface, for
she has no memory
of being born, or the
one who bore her.
She feels she’s died,
but loses no sleep.

She’ll never weep
for burnt wood
long turned to ash
& knows not why,
but she likes to try
imagining the scent
of the night
she was
born.