An Account of the Saltscape,
in Three Parts
We were in the field together, ours, lying loving, then arguing to stand. And suddenly she turned from me, was turned from me, away, and turned to salt. As that, in salt, she was no less beautiful, though certainly less mine if ever she had been.
I stood a dark facing her pale, taking it, her, in. Immaculate small fineness, grain packed deep and tight in the form which fit my arms, which was fit to my arms, as if my reach was her and her only, as she was, once, so perfect, now hardened. I circled her then—observing her hard in all the curves she hated to be observed in—circled her seven times, circled around and around, observed her head to toe and observed her cleavages, the whiteness thick and yet still white as nude. I, circled. Circled her screaming, screamed everynot I ever needed, screamed long pinch on love, asking, why me? Asking the asked to her full pureness, reaffirm to undeny, screaming myself to stasis. Sweep of jaw, column of neck, fluted, shoulder to arm, grains, sun-holding wrist and hand upheld, about to slap. Me, my living face… and, suddenly, she turned from me, was turned from me, away, and turned to salt.
I was bitter, and so I broke off a finger, brittle, her right hand’s index at the cracking to crackling knuckle, loosing grains. I held the finger, her finger, aloft. To touch the sky. An idol. Pointing fault. To print my nipple in. I popped it in my mouth. And thought, couldn’t help but think, salty. I sucked, and sucked its nail, sucked its length pursing down to its first joint, the second as my lips puckered, withdrew into my face itself, paled me, sucked me in—I internalized what must have been her sin—to clearness, clarity, unto near transparence (of all my possible motives) … a disappearance into white myself, my own: I dissolved into a cloud. Of the wide high summer’s day.
Gaining heavens, floating, light, up above her, hovering there, still. Gathering my tears to heavy, a womb of my own, finally, above her imperfected form, then—after how many lights and darks, windlessness, I do not know—I loosed hot rain, fell down on her, drizzle to dump to melt her, and myself suspended, ruining her features, a deep smudge, unmelting candle unlit forever, a running dissolution to the lying standing field. Ours. Where. I wisped away, high, my own dispersal, a fade to goneness, to edge of glare off wildflowers, growing wild of her, grown and white.
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