Rosemary, That’s For Remembrance

Feel its dry leaves between your fingers; be immersed into a fragrant garden memory that leaves you remembering.

By Kate Meadows

We spent some hours in the back garden,
in the drained tone of dusk. Everything blue and
smelling callow, leisured trails between
wayward fronds. Toe-ing the cross-hatched dirt,

you & I leaned in close for a whiff, halting
for flowers with puckered edges,
enormous poppies or violet-clusters.
When conversation tapered out, we forked

and drifted. I wavered by the vacant hen-house,
while you stood entranced by some
moth’s intricate politics. So we walked our
silent figure-eights, one single cloud

going orange over the furthest roof,
Then: a gift. Finger of rosemary
in your palm. Bristled fragrance,
pale braid turning between thumbs.

Pocketed, and carried home, it dried a dark
umber, not unlike a burnt match coveting
its odor. Slight, curious creature of
my nightstand’s drawer: a mnemonic.

Kate Meadows studied English and Comparative Literature at UNC. She graduated in 2021 and now works as an Associate Editor for 86 Logic, as of Oct. 2021.