Parfumerie

By Grace Marsh

I spray perfume but musk can't mask the flesh decay beneath.

I scent the air and there I find the illness where it breeds.

I find myself catching nosefuls sick with truth: sweet, spoiled 

leg (notes of old corpse and ripe fruit). I smell acid tangs 

of gastric juice, catheter fume, feeding tube. I find amber, 

jasmine, a dash of oud, vanilla pod, bergamot — 

none of them disguise the rot, the skin necrotic, thick and black,

the piss and puss and dressing packs.

I bathe with honeyed shower gel but the woundsmell 

has sown its seeds. I scent the air and there I find 

the illness where it breeds: it has made a birthing ground 

of sloughed-off skin, ulcered shins and feet. 

No top, heart or base notes can soothe the stench of rancid meat —

citrus, rose and sandalwood, lost in leaks as sickbeds flood, overflows

of shameful smell, the dying frame, the terminal tell. 

I find myself turning away 

from the source, away from the bags and the tubes 

and the sores, away from the lines and the needles 

and the sheets — instead I find parfumeries, a foreigner abroad 

taking to the streets. Cobblestone combing, drainsmell, pastry, 

Chanel No. 5, a boulangerie, maybe. Paris smells pretty and putrid 

and human, with shit on the paths and fleuristes to bloom in.

The illness keeps breeding, on and inside, 

I can't move away, try as I might.

By Grace Marsh