When you think of your country,
you smell
pungent garlic disappointment
of the American Dream forgot,
misplaced, impossible;
vinegar poured on gaping wounds of memories,
shame that permeates the past
with a sour perfume;
spicy with doubt,
sweet in curiosity,
the ginger-rose of forgiveness.

When you think of your country,
you smell
frigid, lonely linoleum,
forced, synthetic emotions
scratching your nose hairs;
that smell is familiar,
but no one wants to admit
just how many times they've smelled it before.

When you think of your country,
you smell
sulfurous hate,
harsh and unrestrained,
assaulting in bitter surprise attacks,
unwelcome but common,
the sharp, rotting compost of instincts
wafting forward,
unwittingly revealed.

When you think of your country,
you smell
that isolated evening, cold air
and clouds revealed by streetlight;
people walking fast,
too fast for you.
Boots and high-heels and sneakers,
clunking and snapping and pawing away.

When you think of your country,
you smell
the longing and uncertainty
of love from afar,
the yearning juxtaposed with self-doubt.
We are a choosy and spontaneous people.

You hear it in the snow, don't you?
Thick white flakes falling from the sky,
an ordinary miracle passing by,
slow and luxurious,
wanting to be heard and recognized
by more than just you.

You hear it as snow falls, don't you?
When you stood surrounded by people,
alone,
and stared up at the sky
and felt the hollow cavity inside your chest
opening,
snowflakes lighting upon your lashes,
wishing you could fly
into the night
that had no stars
only frozen pieces of far-away clouds
and leave
to where you don't have to care
about what people think of you
or what you see in other people
or what you see reflected in yourself
and you can love and love and love and love
that mirror of you
and be loved
by the miracle of snow.

We are a fickle people.