the scent is burned into the pillow case
the bedding the mattress. no number
of washes removes it--the memory
can't be cleaned

only buried.
but the brain--a maniac--flings
dirt shovelfulls to the top, uncovering
what it will greedily bury hours later like
a rabid dog hiding a hallucination. like a sisyphus
of the graveyard.


the only thing worse than the memory of the scent
is the memory of the silence--the roaring answer. the
comforting executioner.