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
