Posts Tagged ‘salt’




Forgive me. I do not mean

to be sharp, stark, sterile.

I’ve read of the salt mines


at Salzburg, how if you throw

a stick, leafless and dead,

into one of the abandoned workings,


then return months later and pull it out,

it will be covered in crystals,

“a galaxy of scintillating diamonds,”


writes Stendahl, “the original

branch no longer recognizable.”

I want to be like that stick.


Take my winter soul

and throw it into the mystery,

though it’s dark and cold


and easy to get lost.

What knows how to attract

the light will grow, will change me


until I barely recognize myself.

I do not mean to be short,

but I hear it in my words.


Stranger things have happened.

What is dead is sometimes

a chance to find new life,


to become a thing shining,

something the same, only fresh,

a thousand times more brilliant.




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Something is missing.
At least that is what

the palate says. Though
so much is here. Nudge

of onion. Wink of cumin.
The lentil’s warm shrug.

It is like, perhaps,
a person who, feeling

a certain emptiness
longs to fill it with

a voice. Though all
around him, voices,

not hers.
The soup is warm,

but not there the spark,
the sharp song, the crystalline chime.

It is easy to taste
mostly absence. We are

hard wired to want it,
to crave it, adore it.

We’ve evolved
alongside of our need.

No one wants to hear
they can’t have what

they want. We cannot
untaste what we’ve tasted.

They say we are mostly
made of emptiness.

Sometimes I understand.

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