bougie parfumee

[casualbird]

i had an assignment to write a poem about a certain object; i chose a scented candle that my mother keeps in her house without ever burning.

i was not supposed to have strong feelings about this object. failed step one.


the phylactery that binds this candle
is printed red and gold, overgrown
with vines and chrysanthemums,
which do not grow on vines.
squat, rounded, metal--
wanton little jar, perfect nook
for oscar wilde’s opium stash.

its top-label credentials,
its gold-foil candle resume proclaims it to be
‘BOUGIE PARFUMEE’
(who would say that out loud?)
but the bottom label, left on, reads ‘$8.95’
how bougie could it be?

i have never met a soul that likes candles,
that burns them more than once a year.
and yet they pile up like dead flies between windowpanes
the real war on christmas is what to get your coworkers
and fucking candles
are the casualties, cordwood-stacked, in linen closet field hospitals.

this candle was a gift to my mother
from a coworker and friend of twenty years.
it is luxuriantly scented--orange, goji berry, tarocco
whatever that is.
my mother is allergic to fragrance.