Salt

We threw it on at first,

into the cuts and lesions we’d found,

and some pinched over left shoulders

to cast that devil aside too,

we watched, a vigil for the drawing out

of all the impurities we’ve accumulated,

applied herbal poultices,

pressed firm to our injuries,

convinced each other

that we had scientifically observed 

miasmic plume

of acrid smoke - a smoke signal

that meant something

neither of us could interpret.

Burnt sage in every room

to exorcise ourselves completely,

to exclaim its expulsion,

to reclaim, a recovery of sorts.

But if it has gone, healed,

if we are renewed, anew,

what’s this bitter cud 

we are left to chew,

salt and sacrifice aside,

this wound still stings,

the wound’s still open.