[salt farming in malta]

By Peter Scalpello

season me;

like saying

istaġun lili

‘the seasons’, ‘to me’

a question

for the sea’s invisible

taste

residue of

rock and light, territory

luminous i am contained

within its prism,

speck and flash

 like land, the

weather forming

seasons, which seasons

a life, something

surfacing

and in my search

for clarity not even

        am i present,

confirmed as one

            thing... transient

when i too wither

what is left?

seeping

saline without fear

of withdrawal, ocean endless and

estranged

salt farming in malta, i’m just

a person and their

tools, active

with need like salt
farming is

my sexuality,
work

puddle once a tide

of wanting and wet

kilos bored through

for the single grain, that

flake like pulling out

my own tooth seems to confirm

affinity, or what can be

touched of it, sprinkled

on my tongue and becoming

self-rooted

rub it right

into the skin,

particularly

my shoulders and face,

so indistinct

in this paradise,

i let it fill

a fissure bred

of what lacks

as reduction

magnifies

our purest commonality;
seasoned, of season,
istaġun,
me

© 2020 harana poetry

  • Twitter Clean