I throw salt over my left shoulder into the eye of a stranger. For months we can’t speak so we go to the shore and our words come back in the mouths of laughing gulls
who steal a bag of SunChips, the foil packet ripping a crack in the sky. Crisps and feathers stabbing the sand around us. To the gulls language is yes yes yes and celebration cackles, like devil-bean.
Name synonymous with hunger, carnage, / but this one was peaceful, floated near the waves’ surface, / sweeping the water open-mouthed for plankton and krill.
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