SALT


In a trice, I am made whole: here
you are, a brigand lying in wait,
circumspect amid a brown study, waiting

 

to be fulfilled.  A moment later,
you step forward and close your mouth
upon mine, scoop out my breath

 

like a wedge of sweet summer melon,
orchestrating a din
within the confines of my chest.

 

Like madness, you speak in tongues
of rosehips and bright burgundy
apples, of a delicate core of flesh and seeds,

 

of a malleable thorn among nettles—
Images shared between your mouth and
mind in an uncertain moment of clarity.

 

Flushed, you hone your lithe curve
upon me as if I am the fine grit of shingle—

cloven to the last, moist remnant of the sea.