Small Murders

When Cleopatra received Antony on her cedarwood ship,

she made sure he would smell her in advance across the sea:

perfumed sails, nets sagging with rosehips and crocus

draped over her bed, her feet and hands rubbed in almond oil,

cinnamon, and henna. I knew I had you when you told me

you could not live without my scent, bought pink bottles of it,

creamy lotions, a tiny vial of parfume—one drop lasted all day.

They say Napoleon told Josephine not to bathe for two weeks

so he could savor her raw scent, but hardly any mention is ever

made of their love of violets. Her signature fragrance: a special blend

of these crushed purple blooms for wrist, cleavage, earlobe.

Some expected to discover a valuable painting inside

the locket around Napoleon’s neck when he died, but found

a powder of violet petals from his wife’s grave instead. And just

yesterday, a new boy leaned in close to whisper that he loved

the smell of my perfume, the one you handpicked years ago.

I could tell he wanted to kiss me, his breath heavy and slow

against my neck. My face lit blue from the movie screen—

I said nothing, only sat up and stared straight ahead. But

by evening’s end, I let him have it: twenty-seven kisses

on my neck, twenty-seven small murders of you. And the count

is correct, I know—each sweet press one less number to weigh

heavy in the next boy’s cupped hands. Your mark on me washed

away with each kiss. The last one so cold, so filled with mist

and tiny daggers, I already smelled blood on my hands.

Source: Miracle Fruit (Tupelo Press, 2003)