isla margarita

the sea is in the air and the salt is in a clump. i pump the shaker with all the vigor i can muster, but the clumps release just seven grains onto my dish. i’ll have to make those crystals count.with my attention on the salty, i had let the conversation slip by, they have moved onto new subjects and conjugations beyond my abilities to decode. i watch a fat black fly settle onto a used lime. flies, now here is a creature i can watch and listen to without any pressure of following along, understanding. it circled my plate and settled on my knife. i flicked it off. nothing like a fish gutted and fried just hours after it was yanked from the water. it’s strange that we call something that is recently dead “fresh.”

Categorized as writing