PS Cottier

To a truck driver
Nullabored,
it may be McDonald’s

The dog combines
bone with noseshadow
of absent master

The writer mixes
new printed book wisp
and any wine

Christ died scented
with sweat and piss
and others’ spit

Only a dead-brave poet
would mention roses
but yes, heaven

will be those too,
and we will turn thrice
and smell that which

we smelt in the womb —
warm blood and love.
As that dog, replete

with his master’s tang,
knows meat and bliss
were always one.

PS Cottier

An old poem, this one, first published in Eureka Street ten years ago.

Our sense of smell is so weak, compared to that of the creature in the photo, but I think it’s an important sense to explore in poetry.