Poetry by Emily Butler

              ​John Brighenti CC



Scent Meditation

Find a comfortable, symmetrical position on this lawn chair.
Might I suggest resting the soles of your feet on the bottom rung
of the wooden chair in front of you. Yes, the one you found 
on the street and painted baby blue but it’s still ugly and
chipped from the rain. Do not chide yourself for forgetting
your possessions in the rain: bike, fire pit, hammock.

Now, close your eyes. Someone else will have to read this to you.
There you go. Inhale deeply. Recall the time when your therapist
read you a body scan meditation. You felt so completely 
watched. She told you to exhale through your mouth, so you did. 
It was uncomfortable. Exhale however you damn well please.
Inhale through your nostrils. Notice any scents. 

Earlier, doing the dishes, you got deja vu
while calculating how many more days 
your boyfriend will be travelling. 

The neighbor’s radio static sounds unnervingly similar
to those experimental bands you like. Broken Social Scene. 
Múm. Oh now you’ve done it. You’re only supposed to
reference myths or the Bible. You aren’t supposed to make 
the dual “you” so obvious.

You aren’t subtle. But the smell of your cut lawn is. Inhale it.
Notice how each inhale smells a little different, almost imperceptibly, 
but it’s there- like the differences in each and every moment
of your life. Each and every bite of your boyfriend’s 
chocolate cake. Notice how you’ve never noticed this before. 
Now, sniff your own armpit and remember you’re alive.




Emily Butler​ is the author of Lucid Dreaming, Waking Life: Unlocking the Power of Your Sleep (Toplight Books) and the poetry chapbook, Self Talk (Plan B Press). Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Spoon River Poetry Review, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Halfway Down the Stairs, Bone Parade, Adelaide, Jokes Review, Waxing and Waning, The Lamplit Underground, and Moonglasses. You can follow them on Twitter @EmilyFButler1
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