Recognition

The cologne hit me in the grocery store—

same scent as before,

and I'm suddenly standing there,

in that apartment, that air,

dusty bookshelves, radiator's tick,

the light making me feel sick,

small, not wanted, tolerated,

in someone else's space, dated.

I didn't want to remember

this person, this member

of my past. But scent

carried me back, unbent.

I stood in the produce section,

unable to move, a direction

lost. The smell was everywhere—

in my hair, my clothes, the air.

I should have left. Instead I stayed,

letting the memory be played,

letting myself be small again,

in that apartment, with that man.

I paid for my groceries and left,

feeling robbed, of something bereft,

the memory clinging to me,

the smell, the way I used to be.