It’s Sunday morning
The house is so quiet.
Not even her sweet old dog
is awake.

Magical rays of light
stream into the room
at an odd angle
through a crack
in the curtains.

Her body and scalp
are damp
from another night
spent dreaming
and sweating
out demons
who only seem
to increase
in number
every single night,
her own Zombie Apocalypse.

She is wet and cold
and shivering
and still lost,
still not found,
not convinced
there’s a better home
in the sky.

She can hear
the slight gurgling
of the electric
aromatherapy machine.

Bergamot and orange
fill the room.

In the end
it is the power
of her senses
that keep her
from falling
into the abyss
of her past
that keep her
from trying
to anchor
herself
on her own
lost innocence
which is merely
a rickety railing
ready to collapse
from age
and too many storms.

For now she is
surrounded by soothing smells.

She thinks in forgotten
fragments of poetry.

*I want to sing the body electric*

And then she suddenly
remembers
he was born
without the ability
to smell
and she mourns

even though
he never mourns her
and she is reminded
how her love was wasted
until she was just
one more
of his forgotten
discarded wraiths
he tries desperately
to sweep away
like messy, dusty,
dark corners
that mar
his desired
perfection.

*You are more
than a mere mistake,*
a kind voice
whispering in heart
tries to remind her.

*You are the body electric*
*You continue to love*
*in the face of sneering enemies*
*and relentless nightmares.*

*Every breath*
*is another battle won.*

And she is bathed
in the feeble light
of yet another
Sunday morning
coming down

Bergamot and orange
her own *Jitterbug Perfume*

There’s a kind of magic in that,
she thinks.

*I sing the body electric,*
she whispers
into her empty room
until the magic
floats
on the air
filling up
the empty spaces
turning even the darkest corners
into light
mystical, magical, morning light.

~ robin dalton

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