The scored gashes of the cutting board seared—
the aroma slicing like tined sword fish.
I wiped the salt and the seas from my lids,
thankful for the onions, the knife, the cry.
My silvery aunt suggested fresh air,
after noting the room smelled like brine;
cutting and weeping was therapeutic,
but I was jonesing for a cigarette.
We crept out, even though everyone knew
our code—what “getting fresh air” really meant.
We sipped sweet chemicals through paper straws
exhaling twining crow’s nests to the moon.
We climbed, searching for my dead grandfather.
We were prepared—unspooling anecdotes,
uncorking bottled histories, leaving
behind a rich trail of pearls in the stars.
“Like golden thread to guide him home” I said,
knowing all to well his ship wouldn’t breach
the horizon. And when the satellites
come crashing down, I’ll have my memories.
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