Image by Tess KincaidThe salt of the earth
is not known for its bedside
manner. Theirs is not for tasting
the white of an egg, but predatory,
sponged and purged, rubbed
in war wounds, blood-red
as Mercurochrome.
Why trade in such certainties?
Let them roll like Jujitsu, tumble
easy, as water off a duck’s back,
salting icy roads instead of tears.
I ask for a small portion,
like a cocktail olive
in a vodka martini.
It’s just a scratch.
Kiss it for me.
Tess Kincaid
February 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 53
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