This piece is dedicated to and inspired by the fragrance writer, the poet who can find any scent you or your beloved enjoys.
In the days of the Roman Gladiators, their natural scents were collected and sold as expensive perfume for rich patrons.
in her white stola, she hummed by the lone gladiator gate,
sixty men strong, leather-covered manhood grew wet, a pricy scent
stunning the young slave, her beloved, agonizing over his undetermined fate
would his blood spill upon the hot, dry dirt in the colosseum today
women in tyrian purple tunics wear gladiator sweat between their breasts
triumph would mean some wealthy woman, with him tonight, would have her way
wrinkles forming chronicles of pain, body bent, eyes see bars of steel
long ago torn apart by lion’s jaws, her first love became a slave for romans
possessing her heart, his memorial, this place of death, the only place she could feel
rare and priceless her husband’s scent, the sweat, oil, and dirt from his loins
harvested daily in his short life, which now she must endure as perfume to others
absent to her, their sweet aroma all that’s left of him, worn by women with gold coins