by ERIN JONES
You fill saltshakers
by the window, your spills forming new oceans
in rings on the bar—
old beer, wasted Stoli,
night sweats of the lonely men that lean here.
This place is a tangle
of gross love,
eyes like mites against any drift of skin.
How to fight
the current, riptide
you paddled through as a child? You were flagging
who warmly waved back
from the beach. When you hit solid ground,
didn’t you worship every bean clam
its way deeper
into pits? You no longer pulled them up
by the handfuls
just to watch
them dig into the nothingness
of your palm.