The History of Salt

& Self Worth

(for my Father)

“You want to grow up to be

worth your salt, don’t you?”,

asked your vanishing Father,

after which

you carry a book

wherever you go

as a way to tell others 

who you are, 

or want to be.

The title on each cover

a second face,

a clue to what is 

being written

within the pages 

of your 

own body.

If you are to live

as if life carries

it’s own meaning

then you must know

it’s flavor

lies in living

hand to mouth.

Eyeless in Gaza, 

The Beautiful and Damned,

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter,

The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Like your

Father

you take to living by

 the laws of autumn

through the prosaic lens

of a spectacular sorrow.

Misfortunes lack regret,

chalked up as they are

to the wistful capriciousness

of youthful longing,

even as death, the thing 

that brines 

all meanings

rests the weight of it’s shadow  

across your chest.

Don’t get me wrong,

you know

its possible not to suffer this.

You can’t afford 

or abide

sentimentality

as too much feeling

overpowers the stew.

So, though you love

like a child

being torn 

from it’s parent,

you will endure

by letting go.

Like the ocean

you’ve longed 

to see

and smell

and touch

and hear

and feel

since childhood

(having long ago

moved inland)

your love remains 

preserved

in a history 

of salt.

So you attempt

to live for rain

because the faucet

lacks poetry

whether you

die of thirst

or not. 

To keep going

make every meal

as if you are

creating 

another man’s 

happiness.

And if asked 

what you use 

for ingredients,

like a poet

confess…

everything.

Peter Valentyne

October 12th, 2020