The Scent of Hell

Perhaps hell
does not have
a scent of its own.

It has never made
anything.

Not the rose
opening after rain,

not bread
breaking warm
beneath the hand,

not pine,
or woodsmoke,

not the salt
carried inland
from the sea.

Hell cannot make
the perfume
at the throat
of someone you love.

It cannot make
the smell of coffee
from another room,

or sheets
hung in sunlight,

or incense
lifting slowly
through the dark.

It can only wait.

Until the rose
belongs to a funeral.

Until the perfume
belongs to someone
who is gone.

Until woodsmoke
opens a winter
you thought was over.

Until incense
opens a door
you had spent years
trying to close.

Then hell
takes what it did not make

and gives it back

with pain.

The rose
is still a rose.

The bread
is still warm.

The sea
still enters
through the open window.

The incense
still rises.

Nothing beautiful
has ceased
to be beautiful.

And perhaps
this is what hell
cannot understand:

what it borrows
does not belong to it.

The rose
was here before.

The rain.

The bread.

The sea.

And on the last day,
when the graves
give up their dead,

perhaps every fragrance
hell borrowed

will be given back

as it was

in the beginning.