She smells like snow
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that crisp smell, white noise
for my nose, smothering
the burn of after dinner cigarettes
and my faded cologne
that she says smells good enough to eat.
Perhaps it's because she arrived
in spring, when icecaps slide
earthward filling all tributaries
with their stunning rush
sweetening them as only cold can.
Or is it because she comes
from a place where snow
in a common blanket, while I
learned to fear the smallest patch
of ice from an early age.
Either way, I'm here,
curled into the gentle curve
of her back, filling my chest
with mouthfuls of her northern smell
until I'm nothing more than an eskimo
huddled in a diamond dome of snow.
Smile if you're stupid,
laugh if you understand.