the smell of a blossoming flower,
that outside of this present,
i’m not sure is real,
but at times get reminded as really existing
when i walk past this now-white tree
and i’m reminded that there are smells
linked to this visual sensation.
what is existence in the apart from reality
in which i can see some ponderosa:
tall, big, bark-full, brown, green,
yet am wholly unable to behold
the tree is masked
as my hand can’t feel
and my nose can’t smell
and i wonder what else is real
because we met online
and i know that i’ve felt you
but i understand that ponderosa
and i know that it smells like butterscotch
when i come up real close and give it a hug.
and i can see it through this glass, sure,
but i saw it before this screen existed
and i want to understand you
but fear i never will
Note: This poem, originally titled “omg a poem about a flower and love? how novel” earned third place in the Sallie Wright Harrison Poetry Award in 2024. The following comments were made: Sometimes a poem is just philosophy in a mask, leaning on associative images to work through some of the deepest suspicions about the world. What’s the nature of a sensory experience? What counts as really understanding something—is it the interplay of multiple senses at once? John Ashbery would love this poem, as would the Australian philosopher-poet Kevin Hart, for how it wrestles with phenomenology. I appreciate too the healthy sarcasm here—the way the title sets the ironic scene but still tells the reader: Don’t forget, this is actually a poem about love. It’s just not sure what love is supposed to look like anymore.
