tucked between the ends of white bread turned upside down

She smells like justice and might.

Her hair smells like light and brilliance

with undertones of jasmine.

When she passes you in the hallway

you smile remembering something

from somewhere

that smelled so good.

And you can't remember what but it makes you think that

Walt Whitman or Margaret Atwood wrote about it.

Sometimes she smells like grilled cheese.

And Campbell's tomato soup.

The grilled cheese my mother made when Megan Swanton was

mean to me.

With a slice and a half of American cheese

tucked between the ends of white bread turned upside down

so I wouldn't know they were the ends.

She smells like peppermint when she's angry.

And eucalyptus when I'm sad.

She smells like teen spirit

and new tennis balls when you first open the can

and like Axe when I miss my son.

She smells like the back of Obi's neck and the top of Levi's head.

And sometimes like the air in the moment after lightening strikes.

Campbell's Soup Can, 1968, Andy Warhol