|Apr/May 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
At Night the Perfumes of the Angel Trumpets
reach me from the farthest corner
of Mother's garden. They remind me of prying open
the hinge of her wedding chest:
the perpetual scents welling up—
the white lace of her gloves
the delicacy of baby's breath.
A year after her death
her dearest flowers thrive:
lilies, clematis, daffodils. Tuberose.
"Take a whiff," she advised.
"Memories sustain you."
She was right. Even now as dresses
fly up on the clothes line
I savor the heliotrope's fragrance,
the vanilla scent of Mother's