Signs Poem by Jenny Kalahar

The salty edge of a seashell overturned
standing, waiting for a sign
every event was preceded by a sign
I ate of the browned bread
salty edge not found
sign not found
love not sought
anger burning brown
salt wiped from disgusted fingertips
the shell thrown through an open window
every event listed before my birth
every event was preceded by a sign
if I had read them
the cracks in the sidewalk spelling the next attraction
or distraction
or retraction
on down
still more salt on my hands
in the cracks of my hands
in the wounds
winding trails
dripping grains
onto a salty beach
the waves cutting in their words
every event preceded by a sign
I have forgotten the language of the signs
I may have never known the language of the signs
I want no more of this brown, stale bread
made lighter by dehydration
dried from years encased in salt
love not sought
fights not fought
everything
everything thrown through an open window
crashing out onto the sidewalk
like a pile of tumbled, jumbled
splintered signs