Westwind

Grains of Salt

Kendall Darfler

I saw in a film a caravan of Kazakhs

carrying on the backs of their steer

copper cookware and felt tents for living.

Their end was the harvest of the evaporated shore of a saline lake.

 

As they coordinated their daily, labored movements

truck after truck drove by, leaving in their wake

excess salt on a dry wind

and hardly anything more.

 

And something about them in their monotony

reminded me of you that day in the Von’s.

Specifically, at the moment when you said,

with one hand reaching toward a box of Mini-Wheats,

that you were most in love.

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