Cinnamon Peeler's Wife (1)

I am the cinnamon       

peeler's wife.  Smell me.

            Michael Ondaatje

Night.  My hands shadow yours along my calf,
across the space between my shoulders,
my breasts, my face.

Before marriage, I imagined,
your touch, the yellow bark dust,
the surrounding scent.

In the beginning I enjoyed that marking,
an announcement of your occupation
on me, of me.

I smooth your hair,
place my mouth on your forehead, taste
droplets of dust, residue from each poor.
Inhale the spice.

4 a.m.  The coolest hour.
Now, I must remove myself to seep
in rose, rinse in buttermilk,
sprinkle vanilla and saffron.

I stand naked in the melting rain.
Only a slight scent remains
on my inner thigh, the stain of yellow dust.

mid-afternoon.  My sweet becomes sweat,
your perfume, your private.
notice the blend, marking
a slight insistence of cinnamon.

(c)Elaine Walters McFerron     2004

from Double Solidude

Green River Press