Cold Enfleurage;
typically reserved for those flowers that are too delicate for the faster hot enfleurage process
Lilacs slip through
coconut-oil coated tweezers.
My roommate condenses herself
into boxes around the living room,
and I scrape off any
oil that clings to my fingers.
A raindrop forces my lips
to purse as I cradle
a bundle of stem-bound lilacs,
gasping in my open palm.
Scissors hide in my back pocket.
It’s not time to replace the old flowers,
but the bush won’t bloom forever.
Staring at the purple flecked
filling between pyrex pie pans,
I wonder: how potent a perfume can I make
with the time left?
I can’t go to sleep
until the petals begin to brown.
My mother greets me at my door
instead of daybreak
and blocks my view of the coast.
She vacuums the carpets I call mine,
notices the lilacs have evaded death
for longer than usual
as I decapitate blossoms,
separating flimsy fragrant tips
from their vestigial tubular bases.
I leave, momentarily,
coveting as many flowers as I can get,
and upon fulfilling my intent to return
I see the rented walls empty
and the pie dishes washed clean.
Cupping my face in her hands
my mother tells me to stop doubting myself,
and leaves me
to stare at the fires from sunbeams
lapping up the western shore,
and think of how her hands
smelled like bathing in springtime
and the moistening of dirt.