Her hands smell of choppedpotatoes, of earth. A quickening, even here. The sky darkens predictably.Memory alongside experience, their intricate exchange. Leeks but not onionsbecause he. No bother. An itch, a scratch. Some amazing circuitry. The stocksimmers as the ordinary continues. One beat, two—and deepens withtexture. Manifold honey. This may bestronger than bliss. Earlier she gazed over the valley. 

As a little girl, all the birthstone jewelry. And the envy.

A quarter-acre corner lot, a five-bedroom. Three poplars atthe back.

Who could want aquamarine? The luxury of gold topaz or ruby.

So many years later, walking along Green Park Road. Alongthe Avon.

Those matching necklace and ring sets. Even peridot suggested.

Playing outside through the summers. Peas off the vine.

A rain had passed. Thick, sweet, sudden smell of childhood.

Ruby, that was my mother’s. Poplars along the path. 

A luxury in the scent. A memorial on my finger.