The Salt Forest

Trees blur in my salty snow globes
A dark seaweed wash for this bright forest and a bramble scratch in my throat.
His hand rests on my leg, a dead weight.
I fold my hands like napkins.
White and edge to edge on my lap.
Crisp and careful.
I don’t want to be touched.
Cool air steals an errant tear from my hot cheek
Sends it hurtling lonely to the forest floor.
What tree from such a bitter seed might grow.
What creeping shoots will crack this damp earth.
Something silver with poison berries.
I will visit and hang bells there.
It makes me smile that thought.
He smiles too.
But I will return to my salt forest alone.