She couldn't read the words,
so she smelled them instead
Breathing in each printed word
And then pausing, as if to savor the scent.

I can smell cursive, she told me
And I asked her what it smelled like

Did it smell like toothpaste
Freshly squeezed from the tube
Was there a trace of the sea
Like crabmeat at the wharf
Or did it smell like mint leaves
Crushed between the fingers

Did words have a scent

Like the tang of an orange just peeled
Or the sweetness after the rain has fallen

What about the sunlight filtering through
a bedsheet dangling from the clothesline
Or a child's wonder upon discovering another
Top-secret clubhouse
What about the change in the leaves
and the first wisps of autumn
Or the memory of a conversation overheard

Did each have a scent?
Did each have its own, unmistakable
smell

Perhaps everything has a smell
A shape, a color
What would a summer afternoon taste like?
Lemony and honey-coated? Syrupy, dusted with sugar?
Or perhaps it wouldn't be sweet at all
But bitter and sharp
Like a wedge of bitter melon
Placed against the tongue

What would it be like to breathe in
The aroma of polka dots or
To taste the tinge of melancholy

And
what would it be like
To sniff the scent of cursive, strewn across the page?