My mother tells me I smell like outside.

She untangles the twigs of Ailanthus altissima

from my coils. My own crown of fermented,

nutty, cocoa butter heaven. She orders me

to wash up before dinner, and I twist myself 

around the trunk of her. Now both skins house

the musk of dead dirt dampened by last night’s rain. 

My mother smells like eucalyptus and tea tree oil.

Under my tang of humid day, we mix: her cloves,

cumin, black pepper, with the cut of grass glued 

to the soles of my feet, and maybe that’s what she means, 

I smell like outside wants to keep me. One day

she could look out and see me merged in the syrup sweet 

of bark, hair a musk of leaves blowing through her window.

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A. Benét is a Black, Queer poet who loves literature and has a weakness for coffee and the color of burnt clay. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Tiny Spoon, Sage Cigarettes, The Hyacinth Review, Erato Lit Mag, Matchbox Magazine, FEED, and more. You can find her on Twitter @benetthewriter.