tightly pursed
misty lavender lips
burst open exhaling
sweet breath
of a thousand tiny throats
fills the air

every grandmother
had a lilac bush
whose aromatic seduction
surrounded me each spring
with a heady fragrance
as I rode my bicycle
hands free eyes closed
through the neighborhood
so familiar

that rich attar
filled my nose
dove into my lungs
entered my bloodstream
pulsing purple perfume particulate
throughout my body
disappearing into the air

those lilacs
with heart-shaped leaves
wilted no matter how
quickly I put them into water

burying my face in a fistful of blooms
running to find vase, jar, anything
as quickly as possible
smashing the stems with a hammer
adding sugar, aspirin
hoping such injury and ameliorative efforts
would force more liquid
into the stems
up into the blossoms and leaves
so that for one more day
just one more day I could sink
into the glorious redolence on my bed
flowers next to it
on the dresser
fill the room with the same
intoxicating sweetness
that carried me down the street
drunk on the scent coming
from every yard
hold it in my head in my mind in my body
as I fell into my dreams

not enough
to satisfy the senses needing more wanting more
deliciously delicate florescence
from reality to fantasy

too soon
leaves grew limp
blossoms toppled and drooped
on skinny-necked stems
never enough water
to maintain turgidity

shriveled like spent penises
like sagging old breasts
given up their milk
the lilacs faded
unable to satisfy the craving
for the sweet sweet fragrance
of a thousand grandmothers

now the cultivars are sophisticated
shades of designer colors french
white expensive perfumes
launch runway shows
anorexic models strut
kick out legs as thin
arms as fragile as lilac stems

no sensuous emanations enrapture
sub-divisions as air-conditioned cars
transport toddlers to grandmothers in condos
living in another state not on the next block

no lilac essence floats appreciated on the wind
no lungs fill but mine in memory
until I spy one bush then another
flanking empty city lots
abandoned houses torn down
spring grass grown over old foundations
neighborhoods devoid of life
save for the lilacs
poor women’s frangipani
where yards used to be

I walk over pull down a branch of blossoms
breathe in that familiar fragrance
make no attempt to pick
bouquets of futile efforts to trap
the scent of a thousand sweet grandmothers
for my dreams

I sniff, drink, gulp, swim
drown in the sweetness
kick off my shoes
throw off my jacket
and drift
eyes closed
perfumed wind caressing my face
tightly pursed
misty lavendar lips
burst open exhaling
sweet breath
of a thousand tiny throats
fills the air.

Dolores S. Slowinski, artist/writer anticipating lilac season in the midst of gray Detroit.