An Account of the Saltscape,
in Three Parts
We were in the field together, ours, lying loving, then arguing to stand. Suddenly she turned from me, was turned from me, away, and turned to salt. As that, in salt, she was no less beautiful, though certainly less mine if ever she had been.
I stood a dark facing her pale, taking it, her, in. Immaculate, such small fineness, grain packed deep and tight in the form that fit my arms, was fit to my arms, as if my reach was her and her only, as she was, once, so perfect, now hardened. I circled her -- observing her hard in all the curves she hated to be observed in -- circled her seven times around, observed her head around to toe observed her cleavages, whitenesses thick and yet still white as nude, I circled. Screaming long pinch on love, why me? I shouted myself to stasis. Sweep of jaw, columnar neck, fluted, her shoulders tapered out to arm, sun-holding wrist with hand upheld, about to slap. Me, my naked face. And suddenly, she turned from me, was turned from me, away, and turned to salt.
Bitter, I broke off a finger, brittle, her right handís index at the cracking knuckle, loosing grains. I held this, hers, aloft. To touch the sky. An idol. Pointing fault. To print my nipple in. Then popped it in my mouth. And thought, couldnít help but thinking, salty. I sucked, its nail, the finger pursing down to its first joint, the second as my lips began to pucker, withdrew into my face, they paled then sucked me in -- internalizing what must have been her sin -- unto clarity, near transparence of all possible motives, a disappearance into purity myself, my own: I dissolved into a cloud. Of the wide and high spring day.
Gaining heavens, I floated light above her, hovering, there still. Gathering my tears to heavy, a womb of my own, finally, with which to crown her imperfected form, then -- after how much moon and lack of wind, not sure -- fell down on her, I loosed hot rain, drizzle dumped to melt her cooling, then myself, suspended, a deep smudge before ruining her features, this running dissolution to our lying standing field. From whence I wisped away myself, dispersed, fade to glare then gone. As the sun shot through me, flowers, growing below wild of her, grown white.
The Jerusalem Same-Sex Attraction Group
Phil S. Stein
The Second Coming of Yeshayahu Leibowitz
An Account of the Saltscape
Fresh Baked Bread
Out of the Depths
Lorna Knowles Blake
Our 790 Back Pages
Zeek in Print
Fall 2005 issue out now!