Forgive my short walk to the corner store. Late November, her birthday, forgive me the same gift each year. Top notes of orange and bergamot, base notes of musk and cedar— forgive my intoxication. Forgive the mystery its name held to a child, its box round and dark as chocolate cake. And the talc’s feathery puff—forgive the weightless pink. Forgive the lake and ocean floors where it was dug—translucent soapstone coupled with asbestos ore. Forgive the crystals, the cleavage—mica, silicate, the tiny hexagons—forgive the pearly luster that killed the men who breathed and boxed it. Forgive the women who pressed their breasts and hips and more against it. My mother— soaking in her evening bath—was saved, the whirl of children sent to town for hamburgers. We could sit at the drugstore counter, order again and again if we were still hungry. Who could predict the evening’s charge— positive or negative? Who could know if the talc’s tiny atoms would stir or settle her mood? Forgive the sand and ore that edged her body every day. Forgive what washed down the drain, silvered the street to the river, rushed over the dam—forgive the roar of inky water. Forgive what made it to the next town, and the next, what made it tonight, to the great lake where I live—white with winter’s dusting.
Luci Huhn is a poet writing in Southwest Michigan. Most recently her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, West Branch, Leon Literary Review, Rattle, and Persimmon Tree. She was nominated by West Branch in 2022 for a Pushcart Prize, and by Leon Literary Review in 2021 for a Best of the Net Award.
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Oh, I could smell the Tabu as I read this. Beautiful!
Wonderful poem. Thank you.