When the Medievals
sat around talking
they must have sat
very far, or upwind, from one another
because they rarely bathed,
lacked bidets, and running water.
When I sit down to write
I feel so very far from myself
have to keep my distance
because I’m
such a dirty boy,
somehow not right
in my mind and my body
or so the world makes me feel.
I try to think how the Medievals
ever got close. Did they wait
till after their annual spring baths?
Or was their whole world so smelly,
so Earthy, they heartily embraced
in mid-Winter,
forgiving each other
all manner of musk?
It’s time I forgave myself
my own stink. It's time I took a long,
deep, breath of myself.
This is my scent,
such as it is. There’s no sense
pretending it doesn’t cover
every word I write, no matter
how hard I spritz. And no,
I don’t blame you
for not wanting to come
any closer
than this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem