Salt Ring – Megan Merchant

Megan Merchant

Salt moon,
milky crust around the window frame.

Salt wing-trail in early light.

Salt to smooth the bumps
burned onto the iron’s soleplate,

to hold silk flowers in place,
line the threshold,
wake the cat from it’s curling sleep.

Salt sprinkled in coffee
to ease the bitter bite,

rubbed to remove the ring—
the wineglass, the wood,
the vase,

the sting,

Rub in circles.

The watermark on your finger—
an absence,

the dent of skin-

when you offer that
part of yourself
to another’s eye.

Salt to lengthen
the life of an old
straw broom,

and sweep salt-cured
sheds before they pile

and you start to believe
that all dead things
are translucent
as wings.

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