Hollis Kurman
Ocean Road
Some skincare people tried to bottle it once, the scent of that road to the beach, the
essence of privilege breezing past toil, that heady combination of ocean, farmland,
hyacinth and continually cut grass, hidden sweat,
and when he spent half his privet trimming earnings to send a small bottle back to his
little sister Rosario, he hoped she wouldn’t see the stains on the envelope, or imagine
the filth underneath, ageing mowers bumping in backs of trucks,
so maybe she, too, could come, as they all came, answering the call, could join him,
and he wouldn’t let her be one of the crowds at the bus stop, he would make
a clean space in his shared truck for her, a colourful cushion for her to sit on,
where she could finger her beads and look out the truck window as they ride, high
above even the SUVs, be hypnotized by the privet symmetry he helped to create,
notice the near invisible nods of the men on each pristine corner,
and breathe in Ocean Road, knowing that she now shares those same notes of lemon
verbena, bergamot, white hyacinth, jasmine, linden blossom, gardenia, orangeflower,
dune rose, sea grass, cucumber, driftwood and musk.