What Salt Taste Like Poem by nathan martin

a pink tupperware container in the cupboard,
filled with salt kept in its acrid epitaph.

kept like snow in the clouds sharp to
the tongue but without the mouthing
sense of the children playing, forming
their little angels in the back yard.

sensless of the year of are lord,
the perfected praise without
preservation drys to the touch.

grows weary in the grass,
the unkept face not barren
but forgotten long ago.

so we keep the spaces distinct
and call everyone by name.

making sure to put everything in
its place and number the years.

for saltwater veins cannot remember
the days of innocence or of the angels
in the yard.

so we learn arithmatic to bind up the
hourglass staircase that lead us here
in the first place.

unsnapping the pink tupperware container
for just a pinch of the fingers,
one last taste on the tongue.

blood purified and chastened rushes
to the heart drawn by the meter and decimal.

a moment and a memory unravels in the skin.

leaving are backyard eden long ago
we learn to get by on a little less.