I like thinking about Norman Mailer thinking about how he'd write about
                the dead goddess,

Marilyn Monroe, he of all people, despised by feminists who said he hated
                all women, feared them,

wanted them where owners could rape them, humor them, consign them
                to kitchen or nursery—

anyway, he found out that Marilyn's favorite perfume was Chanel No. 5,
                so he bought a bottle,

kept it on his writing table as others might keep candleflame—
                he breathed it in,

the perfume enveloped him, miscible with sleeping pills, Gable's smile,
                JFK's aftershave,
               
Norman sometimes inhaled & held his breath for the length
                of a dreamed sentence,

ass & cleavage, squeals, that blonde who should have known him, he wished
                he'd possessed her,

I'm rapt in these scents, this conspiracy, my writer & his murdered movie
                star coming together.