My Life as a Dog.
At first I preferred the ones that sprung out when
I lifted lids. The bright flashbulbs of wild
garlic; the fairground ride of engine oil.
Opening the gate to a garden
full of roses was like stepping inside
a warm shower. There are still times when I’ll
slap myself in the face with black pepper
or let a ripe gruyere rise like the sea.
But now I tend to choose the pastel smells,
the hint of thyme or jasmine. I prefer
to spend the evening in a library
slipping the dusty books off of their shelves.
I can tell who last handled them, if they
were male or female, ill or overweight.
I can smell the mouse in the woodpile,
the bird on the gate, fear stuck to the body
like bubblegum hardening under a seat.
I can smell sex on the skin. It’s been a while
now since the accident. I lay in bed
letting the scent of cheap bleach prod and pinch
my face; not knowing if I smelt or saw
or even heard it. Later, when my mind
had carded out its tangled ends and stitched
itself into its box, I found there were
things missing: holes the grass had grown over.
I’ll trip on them during a conversation.
But in return it’s left me such a gift.
I’m told some tribes of nomads smell water.
Well, I can also tell its composition;
a tang of iron or a chalky hint
of fluoride. I can turn my crosshairs on
anyone and see things they don’t know
about themselves: that stomach ulcer which
will start to burn them soon; the first sign of
a kidney going wrong. This must be how
Mozart felt, or Brahms, or Nimzowitsch,
or Monet squinting out over those fields
that rearranged themselves for him, like crowds
jostling to see a circus or a fête,
or ivy chasing sunlight up a wall
like a Lurcher on a scent: the urgent, loud,
terrible sensuality of art.
*Ross Cogan received a Gregory Award in 1999; his first collection, Stalin’s Desk was published by Oversteps Press. Ross’s poetry and reviews have been published in various journals, including Poetry London, PN Review, The Rialto, Acumen, Stand and Orbis.
