Affinities
Back then the West Branch valley smelled
of cow dung by early summer. That was before
people started to notice what was happening
to the streams, or cared what poured into
the bay. The polite word, Mom said, was
fertilizer, but that was before the cancer
and chemo came, before she said the pear
trees in bloom along the avenue smelled
like cat piss. I told you about the dream
in which our house opened like a lily, gorgeous
but reeking of sulfur and rot. The man next door
leaned on his spade and asked, “Miracle Grow?”
You told me there were two sorts of people:
those who secretly liked the smell of manure
and those who preferred a whiff of skunk.
I was surprised to admit I was the latter.
Before you left for Philadelphia, you were
sleeping on the floor of Jenn’s apartment.
We waited for her one night because you
didn’t have the key. A skunk and her kits
emerged from somewhere under the shed,
critters made of midnight and cotton, eyes
that reflected stars. In that moment I knew
you wouldn’t return. I would have to make
my own shelter. I worked nights, spent days
at the park or in the woods. By winter, from my
kitchen window, scents of caramel, cardamom,
vanilla, and yeast began to rise like dreams.
Listen to Affinities here.
of cow dung by early summer. That was before
people started to notice what was happening
to the streams, or cared what poured into
the bay. The polite word, Mom said, was
fertilizer, but that was before the cancer
and chemo came, before she said the pear
trees in bloom along the avenue smelled
like cat piss. I told you about the dream
in which our house opened like a lily, gorgeous
but reeking of sulfur and rot. The man next door
leaned on his spade and asked, “Miracle Grow?”
You told me there were two sorts of people:
those who secretly liked the smell of manure
and those who preferred a whiff of skunk.
I was surprised to admit I was the latter.
Before you left for Philadelphia, you were
sleeping on the floor of Jenn’s apartment.
We waited for her one night because you
didn’t have the key. A skunk and her kits
emerged from somewhere under the shed,
critters made of midnight and cotton, eyes
that reflected stars. In that moment I knew
you wouldn’t return. I would have to make
my own shelter. I worked nights, spent days
at the park or in the woods. By winter, from my
kitchen window, scents of caramel, cardamom,
vanilla, and yeast began to rise like dreams.
Listen to Affinities here.
David J. Bauman's recent chapbooks were published by Seven Kitchens Press: Mapping the Valley: Hospital Poems (2021), a collaboration with his son Micah, and Angels & Adultery (2018). David has work published or forthcoming in New Ohio Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Blood Orange Review, Impost and The MacGuffin.
My favorite poem by Robert Lowell is “Skunk Hour,” which he wrote for Elizabeth Bishop. While trying to break into old memories with the tools of place and scent, I remembered what my own private Elizabeth Bishop once said about cow manure and skunk, and that’s how this poem happened.
My favorite poem by Robert Lowell is “Skunk Hour,” which he wrote for Elizabeth Bishop. While trying to break into old memories with the tools of place and scent, I remembered what my own private Elizabeth Bishop once said about cow manure and skunk, and that’s how this poem happened.