Confection by Lauren Scharhag

Summer, and almost two seasons
into the pandemic. Like many,
I’m spending a lot of time 
in the kitchen. At the moment,
there’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer,
peach cobbler in the oven,
my house scented with cinnamon
and sweet fruit and buttery streusel,
and I realize I must not take 
my sense of smell for granted.

I knew a guy once that had a very
poor sense of smell. I don’t know 
if he was born that way or if it
was something that happened to him
gradually. You’d think it would 
hinder his enjoyment of food, 
but on the contrary, he could 
eat anything. Taste is rooted in smell.
Since he couldn’t really taste it,
flavor simply wasn’t important to him. 
He’d learned to appreciate texture.
He could throw any combination
of vegetables and condiments
into a bowl, nuke it, and call it good.
Sometimes, I envy this total lack
of particularness, but he would not
be able to smell this cobbler baking,
and I, having lived sweetness
in full, both the bitter and the pure,
would not give it up, as I would not 
give up coarse ocean salt crusting my bread
or peppers that sting the tongue like nettles,
portobella umami and tart lime. 
The guy I knew also had 
a terrible memory, and memory, too,
is linked to the senses.

I want my nose. I want my tastebuds.
I want my lungs. I want dessert. 
I want yesterday. And tomorrow. 
I eat the cobbler, already dreaming
of future confections.
I am careful not to burn my mouth.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com