Salt and Other Poems


Walking toward you is slower every time.

It’s obvious—

like another calf born
in winter, a shredded butterfly

as evidence of changing hands.

Childhoods spoken
underwater, how they’ve made us

depend on box fans to whir
themselves silent. Punchlines reverse

at my expense, harming me
back into separation.

It’s how we can keep this going.

Once, I wanted you around
my waist so we could dance.

Now I call my friends, afraid

my stories will be overwritten in order
to bail you out. The first time

I boiled water for you, I was so careful.

I poured in enough salt
to burn a hole through your cheek.


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