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Floral roundabout

I am sure at times my grandmother
visits me when I smell a wisp
of floral. Some days it's different
as if she wakes up in an alternate universe
and chooses rose over antique perfume
in that bottle with two hearts. The perfume
didn't go in there but when Clarence the cat
knocked it over she knew it was time to switch.
Her visits are brief. I may be laying fetal
against a sweat soaked pillow or burying a dead
iguana. His name was Kermit.
Maybe I just punched a brick wall and
this feeling comes over me, a floral scent
that makes my eyes go to the back of my head.
I am not here, I am inside a capsule
of flowers, I am headlining my female roots,
writing the score, channeling her Depression days,
the dust bowl, the cigarettes that killed her,
the cancer, the cancer, the hoarded cans
next to the oven. corn. peas. carrots.
Then I inhale again and it's gone. I smell sweat,
my skin and the litter box. Wherever I am I stretch
and grasp a wall or a bed, drop into a mental haven
that is 75 degrees, hidden beneath thick, lacy curtains
and it's 2 AM; sunrise is on the schedule.
I lay in a bed of floral arrangements.
In certain ways they don't go together: rose, lily,
snapdragons, zinnia. My mother offers
me a bouquet and I accept, run upstairs
and put it in a tiny blue china vase that fits in my palm.
Sometimes I fall fast asleep in that room
but sometimes I stay awake, waiting for the scent again.