Permeation

BY LIZ BECKER

A poem on the supernatural storm that seizes the atmosphere of a perfumers workspace.

Image by Elizabeth Becker

When my cat knocks the vial

of synthetic civet from my desk

and it breaks–

something carnal, almost human

seeps into the floor–

I do not blame her.

She does not understand this new order,

if it is one–

rows of liquids breathing softly

where my essays used to live,

handwritten labels curling at the corners,

half-organized by impulse,

by what I want to smell again.

The air in the apartment has shifted–

thick with bergamot splitting open,

jasmone bruising sweet,

whispers of 19-letter compounds

threading through the draft

from the window.

Blotters bloom in my hands.

I press them to my nose–

again, again–

like evidence,

like doubt,

until everything blurs.

It all lingers.

In the rings stained on wood,

under my nails,

in the sleeve of yesterday’s sweater,

And still–

I lean closer,

breathing it in

mid-process,

before it knows

what it is.

Liz Becker is an art historian, librarian, poet, and perfume freak living in Chicago, Illinois. If they’re not dabbling with perfume raw materials, they’re probably reading, sitting by the lake, recipe testing, or taking photos of their two cats. You can find all their shenanigans at @fungusfather on Instagram.