Behind the Flowers

All the perfume in the world

will not destroy him.

We burn oils of geranium and camomile

in quaint ceramic bowls,

try to smother him with beauty.

But he waits

in the dark, with the things

that have no home:

ironing boards, broom handles,

hammers, empty suitcases.

It was a night out on the playing fields 

when we met him, my friends and I.

Invisible as he was, he was beautiful.

We welcomed him into our circle

and he made us look cool.

When he was around, we felt like

cowboys against red rocks,

femme fatales lounging by the piano

with mysterious eyelashes.

Everything should be fine, we say now.

We have sealed the walls and floors,

poured self-expanding foam into the cracks.

Still, in he creeps -

the smell of a funeral pyre days after burning.

He steals into our noses, lungs, 

our eyeballs, even.

He delights in mists and blindings.

He seemed wiser than any of us, though silent,

always there at the important moments:

that last exam, the end of school,

the first train ride to France.

Later he was there for break-ups,

at three in the morning,

there for the tears and trembling hands.

But now we think ourselves the wise ones,

open all the windows, try to coax him out.

You will never be rid of me, he says.

I am outlawed in the cafes and the bars

and so I fall into the air.

You think I will go away. 

But all the charcoal, all the citrus, 

all the incense in the world 

cannot destroy me.

We sense him close by before we fall asleep.

We are always searching it out,

that stale smell behind the flowers,

making sure it is still there - 

a reminder of our betrayal.