Facedown in the salt

30 Jan

Down where the sidewalks of the town
clutch the bone-deep cold
and store a memory–
the ghostly frost,
the end of January–
where, come July, only a backhoe will retrieve it.

Down where a skull will test the tensile strength
of nose bone.

Down where boot soles
mere seconds ago
were grinding like impatient teeth against
kernel-sized chunks of road salt.

The cold against my cheek
–initially a shock, a jolt–
becomes a consolation
anesthetizing constellation
of knuckle-sized dents
against my self
against my skin, against
my nose, my ear, my jaw, my face.

The idea of who I am
is facedown in the salt.


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