Grandma’s perfume.

Lying on that wasteland, arid, forgotten
Dried to its root that it couldn’t be rotten
Wreath smelled like cinnamon burnt
When mother died without all she’d learnt

There was school with its shower of class
Chores that became giant heaps after mass
Couth was the face of caution
Because to err came with its fair portion

Her advice about miserable vice
Scolds, bold reprimands as cold as ice
She’d settle on an aging sofa at her corner
To chew on wisdom before she mourned her

Granny smelled like stale bacon
Her sweat whirled enough to awake and leave you shaken
She was buried in a cup of raisin
She was olive with taste so brazen.

Leonell

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