Godsmell

Ben Nardolilli

Comments about a breath are spreading, whose?

Not mine, I hold onto it as long as I can

while the talk still remains stuck to the subject.

As remarks about the smell abound,

most settle on complaints and express annoyance

at having to become acquainted

all too intimately with someone

exhaling their stink through streets and rooms.

Each time I withdraw my air supply, I am confident

it is not me, I am innocent,

or at least, my breath is not as bad

compared to the stench I detect with everyone,

it is the humid mess of another

rising up and swirling in the air, thick as garlic

with a greasy undertone beneath each whiff.

Accompanying a brigade of concerned citizens,

I search for a source among factories and accidents,

sniffing out the origin of this misery

among the wood of dead trees and live fungi,

delving into the depths of gutters,

and maneuvering behind people’s pets.

The unwashed combination areas of bodies

gets a dedicated investigation all its own.

No clear spill or fresh leak hints at a direct source

foul patches of air only indicate a sour musk

emanating off of everything,

and all the artificial airs of society are unable

to cover it up with giant fans and tubs of potpourri.

Growing tired of pinching our noses and failing 

to find the cause of our distress,

we try to accept a minor solace about this odor,

that it points to a higher power uniting

all of us with a stink we have to share.

It is, in this one sense, the holy halitosis of the lord,

and the kind of scent only a living being can make,

for we all agree it is bad, but not bad enough

to suggest something rotting,

an emanation from a dead deity purifying above us all