The Scent of the Hand Soap Is Called “Leaves”
Along the west perimeter of the parking garage,
the side opens up, eye-level, with white hydrangeas,
blooms the size of shoulder blades, now brown
as if burned by winter. I can smell the leaves
scattered like puzzle pieces in the grass beside them,
last night’s rain filling the air with their russet decay,
although I can’t see them from here. This isn’t something
that I carried with me into my stone-colored adulthood,
this scent, papery elder hands brushing at my cheek
carrying the deep stale disuse of nature’s pages
before they crumble into triangles under my cannonball knees.
Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Livina Press, The Storms, and The Bombay Lit Mag, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.