LOVE AND SCOPOLAMINE
It only takes the barest
of breaths, a passing scent,
a cloud in the palm of a hand.
A few lonely granules in a whisky glass,
a light rim frosting on the filter
of a cigarette is all it takes.
Love and scopolamine—
distilled from this Columbian flower
with petals like blades, stark white
with acid green streaks like a wedding dress
dragged through tall grass.
You go in smiling, without a fight.
It’s not your fault—it’s nobody’s fault.
Still, the fact remains.