poetry by cassie calcaterra

forgotten scent

there’s the photo in my bathroom cabinet:

floral wallpaper in the background, baby me is thumb-sucking, wide eyes  focused on the camera while his peer down at me, his slight smile, deep brown hair, a single curl on  his forehead, the point of his nose and a white collared shirt.

there’s the portrait I made:

white paint covers a wooden canvas, red paint outlines and radiates the place where our faces should be,  no eyes to peer, no slight smile, no thumb in sight, instead of white take a blue collared shirt, no single curl on his forehead, just the mixing of blue and red oil paint sticks that create a blur of hair.

there’s the truth of the memory:

I’d be lying if I said here  that I remember seeing the way his  nose pointed when he smiled, the  sound of his voice, the smell of him, or the look in his eyes when he held me. I’d be lying if I said here that I remember any of him without photos or stories passed down.

Cassie Calcaterra (they/them) is an artist and writer living in Chicago. They are currently an undergrad poetry student at Columbia College Chicago. Their writing appears in The Huron River Review and is forthcoming in Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose.