Salt

Float

I am not the person I thought I was, 43 now and warped with salt blisters. My blood shows lithium at 0.6 mcg. Would it taste like a mineshaft in Slovenia, a mineshaft in California. The capsules are pink as a baby’s sweater and as difficult to swallow. Every day they welp in my throat with how I know battery acid tastes, greening the terminals.

Even stone transforms under pressure, new foliage electrifies before storm clouds. A pony with a swollen fetlock is brought to stand in a cold stream. Gneiss, thunderclap, remedy.

The light looks like kabuki makeup on my ceiling. It goes on thick as I get up to wander the dog. A lady in a car watches me, her mouth a fifth wheel, a nicotine lozenge, a hard same. Audience to each other for a moment, we pass, chalky, elbows out of joint, made stranger to ourselves in the close light.

The last of the spring walks me further than I planned on going. Why does chamomile prefer the interstice between pavements. Here in the North, the salt run-off. Make a tea of my shins, set it out for the songbirds, the hawk. With feathers brined of smolder.

Artwork by Luchina Akhmad

Kate Oden is a writer and German translator who lives in New Hampshire, USA. Her poetry also appeared in Olney in June 2022. Find her on Twitter @OdenKate

Luchina Akhmad is a Palestinian-Ukrainian freelance illustrator based in Dubai. She started with oil paint, then digital art, then hopped into illustrations where she felt her heart sat right the most. Akhmad is currently working on projects for illustrations for a few cafés in Dubai, as well as some book cover projects. Find her on Instagram @Luchinart