deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Scent Of The Night She Was Born

   
It’s still not too late    
as she rises near a light    
to a knock at her   
front door this evening,    
   
Carefully wrapping    
herself in a robe from    
the chill in the air    
and whoever is there,    
so they will think her  
a respectable whore.    
   
Yet she sees no one  
as she 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 she steps out on    
the porch where    
cane chairs are stacked,    
brought to her  
by men who buy them  
from her as payment.    
   
She is a handsome    
woman, still young even,    
but not too much.    
She has always    
remembered herself    
like this, and no other.    
   
As she sits in a cane chair    
to wait for the first    
light of a rising moon,    
she forget the    
cigarette she drew on    
inside as it dwindles    
and goes out,    
   
And a new memory    
tries to surface.    
For she has no    
memory of being born,    
or the woman    
who bore her.    
Yet she thinks she has died,    
but loses no sleep.    
   
And she never weeps for    
burnt wood    
long gone to ash.    
And she doesn’t know why,    
but she likes to try to    
imagine the scent    
of the night she was born.    
Jade-Pandora
Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
Published | Edited 3rd Mar 2019
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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