He comes home smelling of coolant and machine oil,
the fragrance of
whirling parts and steel kissing steel.
I am a stranger to these blue collar
scents, more accustomed to men who smell like
parchment paper and the acid of
men with ink stains and paper cuts for war wounds,
not callouses and metal slivers—
men with purple bruised hearts,
not safety glasses and steel toed boots.
We are whirling kisses and stealing parts
on the kitchen table,
and he isn’t my old love with a poet’s sensibility,
but he does a fine job making poetry with me,
vowels in whispers; a new song
to write in a new language.
I am no longer trapped in the pages of my old love’s story,
an inkblot, a blunder he tried to write over with a new
style in a new life in a new place,
because it was him who thought he was too short
for me to wear heels
him too quiet for me to speak
him who thought that because he was writer
I could not be.
My new love tells me to be as modest or as sultry
as I’d like,
to be as coy or as stupid,
to be as witty or as bland.
And what I want to say to my new love is that
I wear heels now
and what I want to say to my old love is that
I wear heels now.
— Coolant by Poetic-Euphemisms. ©Gabrielle Martin 2013 (via symphony-of-a-survivor)