Three

They say memory is three
quarters smell
so for every remembered touch
for each ringing note, fallen silent
three scents must be attached.

All these photos must have changed things.
All these images must have taken
up the space where my nose would have stored
yesterday. Maybe it's only my brain
that forgets, maybe everyone else's works

that way. I had pneumonia at 19
and couldn't smell anything for a year
I didn't know if it had gone on holiday
or moved to another country
without so much as a Dear John letter

until, like a scratch-and-sniff postcard
walking past a street person on Telegraph Avenue
the pungent stench of ammonia startled me, for weeks
I stuck my nose into roses and bougainvillea
but got only thorns for my trouble.

Suddenly, acrid eucalyptus from the wildfire
fresh cut onions, frying
fresh baked bread
espresso
smell had returned.

I hope he had fun on vacation
and sauteed mushroom butter, rolled in rose petals,
cranked peppercorns, stomped grapes at harvest
all with his eyes closed
and his ears shut.

Maybe it's not memory
but imagination, and that's why there's no scent.
Were I to lose sense again
not fairness, or balance, or curiosity
and definitely not imagination

so even if I forget what love smells like
I can fill up the rest
with my eyes closed
and I'll still remember
you