Salt III: Breathe
The first time we smell the air we wail and cry.
— King Lear
For a long time afterwards
I’d catch myself holding
my breath. That is to say
stop myself
from inhaling the air
now filled with war’s afterbirth: blood / dust / & salt.
In primary school, we learned that
humans inhale oxygen & exhale
carbon dioxide — waste.
The air, then, must be filled
with the dead’s last breath.
Last night, I dreamt that I was
a dying fish caught
in the dregs of the Benue River.
On its banks, bony men
with oil skin packed salt mixed
with saliva onto their wounds
then howled. The air, thick
& grief-stricken,
wormed its way to where I lay.
Waste.
.chisaraokwu. is an American Nigerian poet & healthcare futurist. A lover of fantasy fiction and mythology, she splits her time between the US and southern Italy.
