The Scent Of The Night I Was Born

It’s still not too late  
as I rise near a light  
to a knock at my  
front door this evening,  

Carefully wrapping  
myself in a robe from  
the chill in the air  
and whoever is there,  
so they will think me  
a respectable whore.  
Yet I see no one as I  
stay in the soft light at  
the threshold,  
in the thin clean air  
of the Chilean Andes,  
with a scent of  
split cordwood in a pile.  
And I step out on  
the porch where  
cane chairs are stacked,  
brought to me by men  
who buy them from me  
as payment.  
I am a handsome  
woman, still young even,  
but not too much.  
I have always  
remembered myself  
like this, and no other.  
As I sit in a cane chair  
to wait for the first  
light of a rising moon,  
I forget the  
cigarette I drew on  
inside as it dwindles  
and goes out,  
And a new memory  
tries to surface.  
For I have no  
memory of being born,  
or the woman  
who bore me.  
Yet I think I have died,  
but I lose no sleep.  
And I never weep for  
burnt wood  
long gone to ash.  
And I don’t know why,  
but I like to try to  
imagine the scent  
of the night I was born.  
Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
Author's Note
Inspired from two of Neruda’s poems: “A Smell Of Cordwood” & “Births”,
Entered in the Deep competition “The Saddest Lines Written”, hosted by JohnnyBlaze & Ahavati.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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