LAVENDER
by
Cindy Rosmus
Always hated it.
That washed-out
purple:
Needy, insecure.
That cloying
scent,
Like an old lady’s
sachet.
Sachets.
Who the fuck uses them?
Maybe in Victorian
England
They masked the
stench of dead people
Chicks took photos
with.
Old chicks.
Your giving me
Lavender soaps,
Candles,
What might be
dusting powder,
Makes me puke.
Makes me feel old.
My skin crinkles,
Bones crack.
Just send me to
the glue factory,
You fuck.
Like I can’t get
laid.
Like I just sit in
the window,
Drunk,
Surrounded by
cats,
Watching neighbors
Take out the
trash.
Even with old cat
litter,
Mine smells the
best on the block.
(Thanks to lavender.)
Aromatherapy:
If it should calm
me,
Why am I scared?
Picturing my
death:
Clothes cut out
the back,
A satin pillow for
My brainless head.
And, sitting up
front,
The Grim Reaper,
In a faded purple
hoodie.
But nobody else.
Cindy originally
hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest
city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story
and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories
have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark
Dossier; The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock
and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow
Mama and the art director of Black Petals. She’s published
seven collections of short stories. Cindy is
a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.
Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues
in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s
Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she
can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received.
