Carcass of Salt

Carcass of Salt

Alexis Ragan

We were never meant to navigate alone,
sea billows want us to forget this.
Your tide stretched to a thin piece of floss
the night you said, “forget this.”
Ever since I’ve seen a different you,
a swordfish tail haunts the air above our heads.
The edge. A circus whip, the fin. A tightrope
tamer, wind climber, tell me —
Where have you gone in all of this?

One night, after balancing on the edge of acrobats,
the same cliff that robs children, you came home
with a gash on your cheek from the razor scale of the tail
I warned you not to mess with; I knew this was the time
to set out for the compass I could not find. Convinced
myself we threw it out just like the rest of us.
I’m to blame for lost commodities.
I’ll look again for us tomorrow.

That night, I couldn’t get your wound to stop weeping.
So, I pressed my dorsal side to your face
and kept it there, sleeping. Of course, I did not rest.
Windows wouldn’t stay shut and the cut grew infected.
Could have sworn it screamed at me, but
I did not lift my hand to satisfy the tantrum —
it could squeal like a swine as long as it wanted to.
This was the last time I would wait for the scab to form.

The great thing about the hill we live on is how
the grass is long enough to make the lullaby
loud enough to drown out misery. Morning came
and the shadow of the scale had slipped away,
your face now glowing sterile and smooth,
reminding where I hid the anchor. Turns out,
I tucked it under the bridge we got married on
and left it there to rust.

We walked together towards the precipice,
each holding a fin on opposite sides.
Tied the tail to the weight
and watched it splash.
And struggle.
Until it sank.

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Alexis Ragan
Poet & Teacher

Alexis Ragan is a poet and teacher. Her work has appeared in Alabaster Co and Calla Press. 

Photography by Joshua Koblin