The Legend of Chanel No. 5

Chanel No. 5 is a staple of perfumery. In fact, it is THE staple. The world could end tomorrow and in 1,000 years aliens could land on earth and they would still know that Chanel No. 5 was a cultural icon. So I wasn't surprised when I was flipping through a favorite book of poetry I find fifteen years ago, New American Poets of the '90s, the following poem in honor of that one and only iconic scent, and I thought I'd share it with you.

Chanel No. 5
by: Chase Twitchell

Life had become a sort of gorgeous elegy,
intimate with things about to be lost.

The waiter's hand on the wineglass
seemed an intermediary flame,

the atoms rampart inside it,

though it moved slowly
and hesitated slightly
before it was withdrawn

as if it meant to ask
whether anything more was wanted.

Abstracted by the static of the surf,

I dined alone, the beach hotel
half-empty in the off-season,

the honeymooning couple
at the table next to mine

caressing with their voices
the still-folded map of their future,

their two armies still in reserve,

the flowers massed between them
a flimsy barricade
against their wakening grief.

The long pin of her corsage
pierced the thin silk on her breast:
white flower, green leaf, black dress.

In her perfume I smelled
the residue of all their recent happiness,
a sweetness corrupted by the sea, and yet

she wore it innocently, that target.

It was a fledgling bitterness I caught
off a shred of air that had touched her dress
as she rose to follow her husband-mystery.

The little emblem inside the flame,
the male and female become one,

was blackening back in their room

overlooking the sea, but before they
hurried back to it, she looked at me,
and, as if to innoculate herself against me,

inclined her head to smell her own gardenia.