Of Salt And Oranges Poem by nathan martin

a grandfather clock in the corner of the
room turns its grayhead and sounds.

it is the hour of salt... it is the hour of aged reason.
and i have lost all affection for the sweet naval of
oranges, which clamor one on top of another
on the kitchen table.

perhaps if i was an expressionist
i would express in driest terms the preservation
of ramses II, or the way of the fermented dill
pickles in the back of my refrigerator.

it is the hour of the second cup of coffee,
it is the hour of the coptic eulogy, and i am
as horus or osiris in the twelfth dynasty
at midnight.

now in the kitchen three chairs sit crookedly
next to me. with crystaline hands i gather
upon the table morton salt from the cupboard
and pour it into a gray dispenser.

i set it next to the fruit bowl with ornate
green vines drawn along the sides of it.

but it is the dried antiquities of cummin and
saffron that i seek.

i seek the harbinger of life after life.

but all i have is a 15 jar tiered spice
rack sitting on a shelf across the room
and a little less time.