The Smell of Nasturtiums
Of earth, of course, but odd, a sharp spice-scent, peripherally-edible grace. Smell of surprise (theirs as much as ours), of birth—remnant of the other world they entered from (seeds wrinkled drops, puckered dots), sniff of blood we don’t share. Ochre-colored cologne, fresh but tied to something old—panelled dens, burls and fins. It does not broadcast. To know it, you must inspect the flower: external horn of victrola, orange spot of music decorating blue garden wall. You must bring your face close, like your lips will meet.
Kathryn Petruccelli is a Pushcart-, Best of the Net-, and Best Small Fictions-nominated writer who holds an obsession with the ocean and an MA in teaching English language learners. Read more.