These lines:

the smell swelling further
than father’s breath or the toes of stockings
surrendered over the radiator, your underwear
hoisted over the bath on a pole like a flag.

were especially evocative for me.

Thank you for writing to my prompt!

http://thebooklife.wordpress.com/2010/04/18/4-16/

Yeast

It was growth, everything warming up,
the whole week of the house’s
sweet and sour had their bout
in the old baby bath you used for a bowl.
With the chime of your spoon on the rim
the sugar, yeast and flour punched each other out,
their blows hung their gloves up in the air.

On bread making day, yeast was everywhere,
Expanding, breathing, scum rose to the surface
of a glass jug, the smell swelling further
than father’s breath or the toes of stockings
surrendered over the radiator, your underwear
hoisted over the bath on a pole like a flag.

Not one of us was allowed to open a window,
as you poured the yeast into a white well
your hands clicked as you pounded the dough.
The rising was temperamental , affected
by a whim of air, a slammed door, a dirty look,
and the whole bowl would flop, smooth to
wrinkled, an empty bag pale as a belly

Before the men came home, you tucked in your lips
for raw dough, threw it onto the counter
with a soft slap, your ring cut half circles
into the surface, the small delves of eight knuckles
engorged by the rising until there were no gaps.

http://ingeborgsblog.blogspot.com/2010/04/napowrimo-april-16th-smell.html

http://mayaganesan.blogspot.com/2010/04/napowrimo-16.html

http://self-intoxication.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-Again-161015696

Driving south on PCH, windows down
and the Pacific Ocean exhales
its salty breath. I remember being thrown

into that water, high school weekends
crowded around a fire pit
waiting to see how long a soda could last

before the flames coaxed it into a geyser.
Coat hangers gave their lives
for hot dogs and marshmallows

only to end up bent, charred
and hoarding heat in cool grey ash.
The aroma is acrid and nostalgic

as it reaches the street, and I remember
sand between my toes, waves tickling foam
across my feet, moonlight bathing

my pale form. The scent intoxicates
but I always forget how lonely I was
on that beach, how certain

I would never be happy enough
to remember Coke splashing down,
pooling in the flickering glow

while all the couples snuck away
to dark lifeguard towers
and I drew words in wet sand,

watched the tide carry them away
like a promise.

~~~~~~~~~

At My Grandparents’ House

Summer, circa 1975
Late afternoon dissolves into evening.
Shadows lengthen on fresh cut grass,
Crickets sing their lullaby.

In the kitchen surrounded by warm pecan cupboards
Grandma and Mom start dinner.
In the living room Grandpa sits in his plaid chair
smoking a pipe and talking with Dad.

Sent to the basement for a jar of pickles,
I descend the wooden steps, pretending
it’s one of my brother’s dares—
I know I can’t reach the chain to turn on the light,

So I cross the thin rugs on the concrete floor
in the dim light from the stairwell,
past fishing poles, birdseed, laundry baskets,
past cardboard boxes full of National Geographics.

I reach the white shelf, the rows of Ball jars—
green beans, wrinkly tomatoes, apple butter,
I snatch the pickles and run
fast as I can, back up the stairs.

My poem for today: Smells like Home