Profumeria
At the age of ninety-five, my father
decides on the need for cologne. The traces
hover long after he has shuffled by.
Fresh. Bracing. Effervescent. Eau de.
A perfect cover, I guess, for the cracked
vellum-skin beneath.
He splashes it on
in the space where parchment and spillage meet
each morning before a mirror image
he can barely see. And he is morphing,
more comfortable […]
