When You Are Nowhere

I only want olfaction
in small doses, off my fingers,
sometimes it comes
when you are nowhere.

This is not a joke.
Iā€™m going to ride on the back
of a lion and sink my hands
into his mane,

drive my knees into his ribs
for grip, whilst peeling the clothes
from my body to whirl
in a lasso above my head.

Do you hear the bass line throbbing
beneath your fingers? Play, play
I could lay the vocals
down, over the top.

But not here, against
the backdrop of bungalows,
cigarette butts and chewing gum
stuck to the pavement. Consider

the wind-chill factor,
the damp, arthritic air and there
is complete absence of
the colour blue.

When you talk to me
you make that air vibrate.
I tell you what you have said.
No, your eyes narrow, it is not that.

You are lying of course.
Truthfulness balled up
at the base of your throat suffocating.
Still, the gift you chose with precision,

delicately wrapped in gold paper,
scented expensively, because
you understand the power of olfaction,
did not have my name on it.



Rachael is a fiction writer and poet based in Lincolnshire, UK. She is a PhD Creative Writing candidate at the University of Lincoln, and has work published by MIROnline, Streetcake Magazine, Truffle, can we have our ball back?, Burning House Press, Hedgehog Poetry and others. Follow her on Instagram @rachaelcharlottewriter