Nobody burns leaves in Orange Mound.

Nostalgia smells like wet grass and dirt

under brand new sneakers squeaking

across linoleum hallways hurrying to home

room on the first day of school. It smells

like burnt hardwood, cherry or apple, and

turkey grease. Birds smoked low and slow

in Bubba’s barrel in the backyard before

showing up wrapped in foil on the kitchen

table at Thanksgiving. It smells like too many

bodies in too small a house at Christmas. The

party spilling over to the front porch. Eating

Aunt Merilyn’s red velvet cake in the back

of Teddy’s Toyota. It smells like burning Royal

Crown Hair Dressing early early on Easter

morning. The skisssshh when the hot comb

meets your kitchen while you sitting trying to

be as still as you can. The heat. It’s so close

to your neck that you can’t help but jump.

Thump. On the temple. Be still girl. Ain’t

nobody burning you. It smells like Calamine

Lotion and sweat baking in the sun. Mrs. Mitchell’s

roses that bloom through the chain-link fence

separating her yard from everyone else’s. It smells

like honeysuckle. Like Anthony Miller’s breath

on your neck as he chases you down cause you

can’t hide and he’s good at seeking. He can’t catch

you though. None of the older boys can. They’re older

but for a little while longer, you’re taller. For a while still

you smell like innocence and blood

rushing to your ears for

a while Dallas Street

remains home base.