In Madagascar, the vanilla smells of old books
traded across the street from the bar that drank
my college rent. Volatile compounds hide
in so many things that mean home—a spoon
of extract sinking into eggs and sugar, almonds,
an old letter steamed open that says I am waiting for you;
come back. And another that says, I am gone.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.
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