Salt
Every summer is the same.
Everything is about fleeting heat,
fleeting lovers or the sound
of car doors shutting.
Moving in and moving
out and leaving behind.
It’s August.
I tell myself I have bigger fish to fry.
The truth
is everytime I open my eyes the world is slicked down
in canola oil. I wish this were a poem about a missing
love. Or beautiful words about heartbreak
or longing or something fleeting.
About salt.
There is nothing beautiful
And there is nothing ugly.
It is all
oil and slickness
My glasses are covered in grease.
Fingernails with breadcrumbs and soft white meat
Licking of thumbs and reverence
of waters I’ve never been to.
Everything about you was water
I overheard my friend’s father crying.
Sink full of dishes and salt.
He told his wife You make me feel
like a disappointment.
I wish I had never shut the car door so hard.