by Carolyn Wells
Salt in a wound worth its weight in salt.
Kiss that picques like fleur de sel de bretagne.
Love preserved like lemon in salt.
Preserved lemon, reserved love.
Salt of you mixes with salt of me.
Fish baked in salt crust
Take a hammer to break it
Like they do in Livorno.
Non mi ricordo pui di niente
except the salt sea of Sardinia
where I swam everyday for summers in a row
and tasted salt of your forearm
on the beach in beckoning breeze.
|Carolyn Wells is Executive Chef at St. Bernard's School in New York City. She learned cooking in France and Italy and has run art and writing workshops in Tuscany, Sardinia and Burgundy. She is an avid lover of linguistics and speaks French, Italian and Spanish. She is a member of and helps coordinate a New York City poetry group called Brevitas. Brevitas celebrates the art of the short poem. She lives in Brooklyn and does yoga as much as possible. In her spare time she forages for food in Maine and Pennsylvania and rides her horse Sam.|