"l'homme," 1814

Open windows and alcohol.
Listen, for the smell,
Again, please.

This hallway is of mirrors.
Fingertips leave it clean
Of silken shoes and tea leaves.
Play it again, sir.

This is not a suicide.
He was a Frenchmen.
Once

Upon a layer in layers
Of memories and armoires
Words strung together
Without remorse sound.

It's understood, hereditary,
I suppose.
You should know.

He tells me of things.
Ethereality, Sensuality,
"Tabula Rosa"
Over coffee.

I could believe you.
Only, I won't.

I'll keep washing dishes.

Emily Smith