SUSAN M. KENNEDY
In Search of Salt

I'm done with passive days
and museum whisper nights.
I lean close to the hall mirror,
stare at the eyes there.
The fog tells me that I'm breathing
still
I need reminders.

I wander through a quiet house,
dangle fingers into briney waters
of the fish tank,
silver darting shimmers
with visibile spines,
delicate
as mine.

I meander to the kitchen,
dip into a can of green spinach.
I know before it touches my tongue
that I hate its limp texture but
still
I crave the salty tang of earth.

In the garden, I touch pink petals,
marvel at the angular lines and spines
that lead to tender.
I have a sudden fierce desire
to taste that softness, too.
I bite;
I am not surprised at the
salty sweet.