Libraries, for example, are good places
to escape the viciousness of people
when they try to get
inside of you
Between the shelves
there is plenty of space
to lick your wounds
This is something I do often

The first twenty years weren’t easy
I was always busy
with the terribly important occupation
of dismantling myself—an exhausting
and ungrateful enterprise.
I did this so earnestly that I was, in fact,
convinced I had invented the vocation

I just kept carving
and carving

Did I ever succeed? in scraping clean
the rind; in turning myself
inside-out.  What is left?
after such a thorough cauterization

One raw little soul

I can still taste that grief
in my mouth like champagne, icy
without the slightest hint of sweetness

I could have stayed inside all day

Meanwhile on the quad, a small white dog
flopped over in the grass and shadows
sprawled across the lawn
with their splotchy memory
Although memory, I am learning,
always give back much more color
than what was there in the first place

I look back now, and I want to feel that
grass on my skin.  But all I can remember
is that I hated my life
and I hated my life

The feeling comes
and goes, but at least I find
a quiet absolution in my landscape:
the restfulness of books
and sunlight in an empty room
that transforms the isolation
into something else entirely

8 thoughts on “Salt

  1. I’m usually not big on free verse poetry, but I really like your style. Your imagery is remarkable, your feelings are deep and vivid, and your repetition is genuine, natural, fitting. Very well done.

  2. Hiii…I think you are really good. Truly. And I am honored that a writer of your calibre liked anything on my blog, so thanks for that. I want to encourage you to keep writing…you are like Rumplestiltskin…you take the straw and stuff of life and spin it into gold.

    For real…great stuff.

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