Ritual of Salt
Poetry by Abigail Templeton
A former lover enters my apartment window and says
“You always did look better in blue.” He starts taking
photographs of my surroundings—an obnoxious habit.
It is night and there is no one left on the block except
him and me, this former lover who is a gate that won’t close.
He reminds me that raindrops always appear bigger
from below. “I should know,” he says, “because I am a camera
lens in a storm lying on my back.” I think he is a saltshaker
fallen on his side. Sometimes I can be found waiting for grains
to escape, other times I am dressed in a uniform, sweeping him
into a dust pan. Climbing out the window he says “Orange Rind”
that’s what he used to call me or “She Who Trips on Carpet”,
“Why didn’t you ever plant that money tree, like I told you?
You could be rich by now, instead of just a dreaming poet.”
When not voraciously writing, Abby can be found teaching life skills classes at a Denver High School for teen moms and pregnant teens. Abby’s poems can also be found in Rattle, Two Hawks Quarterly, The Beachhead and The Wazee Journal.
