Salt

Sweat of my brow,
briney sea,
coppery taste
of choked down blood,
tears
and tears,
salt in my wounds.

He salted the fields,
we both know who,
and still
they dragged him
to the war
of his suggestion,
or so we are told.

In Chichicastenango
in the hotel
by the bus stop
I ordered un tacito de cafe’
and spooned a little azucar
to sweeten the afternoon
but still it was bitter
so I added more and more
but it was really salt
that curdled my stomach
that sour day
the bombing began,
thick enough
to float a pebble.

Salt,
my tongue,
your furrowed field,
parched lips,
unquenchable thirst,
earth salt,
sea salt,
salt.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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