Superstition

I throw your spilt salt over my shoulder

Pinch by pinch,

And lick the last

Grains from my fingers.

It covers my tongue

With sodium slurry

Redolent of tequila and lime,

Fish and chips on the quayside,

Seasoning the Sunday roast.

Now those days are gone

As you are gone,

And when I knock the salt cellar

On the table,

And white grains spill

Wildly over the letter you left me,

I throw your spilled salt over my shoulder

As if somehow that will negate your words

And bring you home.

 

A short poem that was inspired by my daughter spilling salt all over the table, and then trying to scoop it all up again.

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