Pink Himalayan Salt
Deodars tall. Tall and rock-hard.
Soft, the softest mist on mountains melts
you into me—
hidden half, in full view
those valleys and those peaks.
I sprinkle pink Himalayan salt
on sliced tomatoes, freshly washed rocket leaves.
Our memories.
Daisies must’ve filled the crevices
of all or at least a few promises
of bright sunshine skies
buried deep in the dirt
of my birth-earth.
Softly, like a whisper, the bees must’ve gathered
sweet nectar
from flowers ready, taut.
Dinner’s ready. I call out.
We sit to eat.
The Sufi CD plays incessantly.
If God is anywhere, He’s in Music.
He must be.
Spittle flute. Hot air.
Passion escapes the clarinet.
Notes high, low, whisper soft.
Sighs. Delicious deep, pink—your lips
trace my contours—goosebumps
grains of salt, salty my body
expectant, ready.
What’s bread without salt?
What’s us without the love-making?
We’ve played the waiting game ever since
the surgery. It cured your cancer.
“Lust for life is a good thing.” The surgeon had said.
If God is anywhere, He’s in Music.
He must be.
Perhaps a prayer then
to bring us back—
to how we used to be.