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You were my salt.
The Damascene roof where my sins were laid

On linen shrouds.
An afternoon miracle that would see me remade

Into a continuum of apricots. 
Sun-dried, sun-kissed. 

Blessed and consecrated.
And, later, a preserve encased in glass.

A jar you liked to hold against the window,

As you smiled and asked, Who else can transform you into this?
You were my salt.
The mounds of white I disappeared in to escape the noise.
The threats of sudden, slow and abrupt departures.

And, most of all, the irrelevance of being left behind.
From where you are, can you see the orchards burning?
The swamps of sulfur?
The child you once touched and turned -
Is there anything he isn’t willing to do

For an afternoon of salt?

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