At her table
Don’t worry,
She tells me.
And I am
wrapped in
her arms
and hair.
There are
few words
to describe this
collapse
into her
smell.
But it is as
familiar
as my
daughter’s
cinnamon-
ny
moon
cheeks
and moles.
Embraces
are paragraphs
and novels
made of
scent.
I’m happy
to be utterly,
wordlessly
lost in
them.
Justine C. Tajonera
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