Salt

​I would recognize your hands
anywhere. The way your right pinky
turns slightly out, a vine 
forever wild.
The way your knuckles speak
of late nights and early mornings
makes them the most dangerous part of you, 
as exposed as they are.
I want to place my thumb softly on each one,
finger-speak for  you have found a place
to rest. So rest.

I’m starving.
I crave a meal or an argument,
anything complex and wild - 
something worth staying up too late with the night 
winding down around us.

Let’s tiptoe into the back garden
to snap kale and basil by moonlight.
You gather those sweet yellow tomatoes 
in your hands and not one will be bruised
when we return to the kitchen.

Let’s squeeze a lemon over drizzled oil
and honey.
Have I told you that turning the salt
grinder sometimes feels like 
just a hurdle between me and a beautiful cream sauce
but is actually the foundation 
upon which this world was built?
The way the wrist turns roughly, the glass solid
in my hand. The way I know that our eyes will meet 
over this meal, agreeing without words
that what we have assembled is beautiful,
and will not last nearly long enough. 

Then I will spill like salt upon the table.