Salt Poem by Alex Salinas

I'd read once that Salinas,
the surname that graces
every form of my identity, was born
in the salt mines of old Spain,
where many men
surely perished.
My uncle Henry, though I'd call him tio,
was a Salinas
if there ever was one,
the salt so strong in his blood,
you could almost taste it
when the spit
from his drunken mouth
landed on your lips
when he would talk up close to you.
At that point, though,
it was better to let it sit,
to ignore, than wipe the spittle off
or else.
When he was in those dark moods,
those frequent dark, drinking moods
and the spit from his mouth flowed free,
I would remind myself to listen,
laugh,
nod my head,
listen,
and remember that, as much as
our lives were different,
as much as our paths out of the mines
were not the same,
we were of the same
salt and blood.