The Black Narcissus


It’s near the end of May; the jasmine is fading slowly but the hillside where I live is replenished with swathes of wild honeysuckle trailing down in surprise ruptures of scent as you find yourself passing by in the dark: the nectarous, sweet siren call of honeysuckle. I have always loved it so much. And yet, to my knowledge, this scent has yet to be convincingly captured in a perfume. I have never smelled one that even comes close.


Lyn Lifshin


bees, my

skin smells 
of sun, the

insides of
 roses. I want

to eat that 
light. Every

thing that

grows does.


FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch’d thy honey’d blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
  No roving foot shall find thee here,        5
  No busy hand provoke a tear.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little…

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