Is love only ever made of lavender, 
or does it manifest in the brine that drips 
from your forehead, congeal in the pinprick – 
is it the smell of cedar or the ashes 
drawn in a cross on my hand 
(I’m only as religious as my vanity demands)
is it gold, frankincense, and myrrh 
or is it fragments of alabaster
that I will bring home, having stolen
the trash from someone else’s garden? 

By Heidi Turner