My fields stretched, long and narrow
and yawned on humid afternoons
as I scratched the backs
of my old marshes.

My currents ran clear;
my only dream was to sweep the tops of seas,
to have always sunshine in my nostrils
and salt on my tongue.

You washed up into the may of my life
from some musky badlands.
Mother warned you were nothing
but common salt
not up to the standards
of my fleur de sel pedigree.

I thought to cure you,
to shake the blandness
from your desert eyes,
for you to be the vessel
to hold my deposits,
brackish and raw.

Your love came in small packages
but I stored them
to become my concentrated hoard;
a mine of bitterness.

I cannot name any one deception;
they are infinite, like grains of salt,
held close under my tongue.

I cannot return to my daily grind

All things taste of you
laced in bitterness

You have taken it all, my salt;
not even a grain
to rub this old wound.
You stole
and keep it in the cellar
of your heart
that extra
special ingredient
the seasoning of love.