A Wrinkle in Time
Cameron Morse

Strong asparagus smell of urine
in the study, I go down
on all fours to sniff the edges

of ottoman and loveseat, plush
corners of the La-Z-Boy
Dad walked away from in the divorce.

I lower myself like a wildebeest
at the watering hole but cannot trace
the odor to a firm origin.

It’s always somehow with me,
a whiff, a nuance. I follow it
everywhere, the meaning,

a dominant motif
I’m lost in and I’m nowhere in
to be found. Sherlock’s

struck before, the story goes.
Our cockapoo marked my sister
Mariah’s beanbag, yellowed

the hem of her dress. Theo trips.
The mug shatters into patio
pavement. First thing’s first,

I remove my tender boy. Then
and only then, sweep up
the shards: chunk of handle

half intact, splinters of china glass.
In part because I know
my father’s never coming back,

I weep reading A Wrinkle in Time, alone
with my son, then go out to check
the mail. I still can’t escape the smell.


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