On This Salt Pile Where We Fell in Love
You shove me into the salt pile and say you love me. It’s the first time. The granules sting and pierce my back. You apologize and fall next to me. Together, we secrete. After all, we are in love.
We burrow fingers underneath the tarp to find pieces of salt matching the stars above. We are fish eluding Typhon, arms knotting like rope. You smell the river. I smell the sewage plant. We smell of each other.
We become slugs and crawl toward one another until our bellies curl inward. Eyes lock, yet bodies far and gone. This is our time. We are the last of the slugs. Barges in the distance the only sound.
Let us dry on this salt pile where we fell in love, you say.
Let the morning sun diminish our skin and be claimed by the ground, I say.
We will be the salt now, you whisper.
We will be the dirt underneath.
Rob Parrish‘s work can be found in Gravel, The Harpoon Review, and The Airgonaut, among others. He is Editor-in-Chief at (b)OINK. He lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with a dog named Coltrane.