An odor hangs just outside my door, in my stoop. It comes and goes for years. I got on a gout stool and looked inside the old mailbox. I crawled under the bush beside the window. I sniffed the wall. I found pill bugs and salamanders but not the special tiny clip rendering the lopper useless. The odor seems inside or on top. It was to my mind placed there. It slides along the air into bright pockets smelling round. It is not near the broken plastron of the Turt. The sun did that, not me, but it was my mistake to leave it there, and not put it inside. It's not in garbage or under the floor, and it isn't a catbird in the Norfolk pine. It gathers in the awning but doesn't come in. Peradventure it comes in, lifted from the grass. The wind doesn't matter. It's not my breath. Whether the wind blows or no, it's there, just a little ways away, gathered. It's the possum playing brain in my bed.
Epiphany: A Literary Journal
Fall / Winter 2011-2012