“Distant love smells like”

The musty trees of your old letters, 

alphabet hanging from twigs.


Ylang ylang blooms wafting, 

their shade 

home to our linked arms.


Drops of cedar and nutmeg on the sink 

from your aftershave, spicy and suave

like your tongue licking the apple

blossom mist off me

the first time. I inhale a lungful,

hurriedly close the cap, 


saving, saving,

like I do my mouth 

to keep the winged creatures 


fluttering inside after 

savoring the sweet peaches 

off your lips.

Gretchen Filart

Gretchen Filart resides in the Philippines, where she writes poems and creative nonfiction about motherhood, love, grief, nature, and intersectionalities. A finalist in phoebe’s 2023 Spring Poetry Contest, her work also appears in Rappler, Defunkt, Door Is A Jar, Maudlin House, Barely South Review, and elsewhere. Though often lost in thought, you may connect with her via Twitter and Instagram @gretchenfilart, or her website, ourworldinwords.com.

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“INNER WORLDS AND OUTER SPACE: THE MAKING OF DIASPORA X”

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“I don’t like makahiya”