His Mother in Scents

Her left arm
is a concentrated twist
of Embassy smoke; her right
a soapstream of kiwi handwash.

The calves and thighs are two-tone.
Bertie Basset-like, half is left liquorice
from the Allsorts bag
that would slip from hip pocket
through torn lining. Every time.

Half is hard to pin, but he guesses
stale rainwater, from so many times
caught out in summer storms
and so many forgotten, stagnating washloads.

Apple face, in looks,
in nasal reference.

Hair, inexplicably
tumeric.

A touch of Chanel
at the pulse points.
Free samples stretched
to breaking point.

Twin scarves of faux-ocean
fabric conditioner and sweat
wind into a torso
below breasts that still -
still - smell
of ghost milk.