You called me castaway and I called you
I could believe the soul is a crater—the impact of
your hands on my chest. Fingertips & lips, forest
& fire. You taste like cinnamon, or cyanide.
My body: bees in a bottle.
I’ve seen a boy go missing inside himself, so I searched for him
in cracked church bells & shot-out light bulbs.
I found him at the bottom of the lake
in my lungs. You pulled him out, but he never looked
the same dressed in all those fishhooks.
I could say surrender until it sounds like a song
or salve. I could hold your love in my mouth
and make pearls of it.
C.T. Salazar is the editor-in-chief of Dirty Paws Poetry Review, and the 2017 AWP Intro Journals poetry winner. His most recent publications include The Tampa Review, The Matador Review, The Harpoon Review, Bad Pony, Ink & Nebula, FLARE: the Flagler Review, and elsewhere. He’s an MFA candidate and children’s librarian.