Nathan Martin | + Follow Poet |
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Of Salt and Oranges

a grandfather clock in  the corner of the
 room turns its grayhead and sounds.

it is the hour of salt... it is the hour of aged reason. 
 and i have lost all affection for the sweet naval of
 oranges, which clamor one on top of another 
on the kitchen table.

 perhaps if i was an expressionist 
i would express in driest terms the preservation 
of ramses II,  or the way of the fermented dill
 pickles  in the back of my refrigerator. 

 it is the hour of the second cup of coffee, 
it is the hour of the coptic eulogy, and i am 
as horus or osiris in the twelfth dynasty
 at midnight.

 now in the kitchen three chairs sit crookedly 
 next to me.  with crystaline hands i gather 
 upon the table morton salt from the cupboard 
  and pour it into a gray dispenser.
 
 i set it next to the fruit bowl with ornate
 green vines drawn along the sides of it. 

 but it is the dried antiquities of cumin and
 saffron that i seek.

 i seek the harbinger of life after life.

 but all i have is a 15  jar tiered spice
 rack sitting on a shelf across the room 
and a little less time.

Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2010

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