SCENTS THEY SENT
I would give a fortune to buy an incense that smells like my mother’s pink robe: something
between jasmine and baby powder.
Her father would be easier to simulate; it would be buying some mint, but the smell turns
different when he plucks it naughtily from the neighbor’s garden.
Her mother is pretty tough to explain; from her cheese pie to hair spray, I can’t spot what
lingers the most.
I could bring my father here through his after shave, but only when he’s freshly shaved. When
he is not, he smells like beard.
His father would be grandpa’s toothpaste; definitely strong mint; there must be something with
mint and grandpas.
His mother smelled like lipstick or pasta frola or cherry liqueur or Greek coffee in the
afternoon.
My sister smells like clean, and it’s so bad I can’t explain it better.
Konstantina Theofanopoulou was born in Greece and dwells in East Village, New York. She spends her mornings working on the neuroscience of language at Rockefeller University, and her nights writing poetry. You can read her poetry in her monthly column on Natural Selections mag (available online and printed), on her IG (@newyork_rhymes), and listen to her poetry in podcasts, like the Hack Sessions (Spotify). Her poetry has been awarded twice (Minoan Publications Award, Panhellenic Poetry Award).