Salt and Sea

Mama is half a country

away and I am newly adult,

so I wash grapes, measuring salt

by eyefuls to baptize them in cold

tap water brine. I rinse, then peel

quickly, discarding the skins, shiny

from juice and curved like fish

scales. I pile their peeled, green bodies.

I drain the kitchen sink sea. Without

the skins, my teeth meet no resistance.

I eat the globes one at a time,

my tongue a patient destroyer.

When only my hands could reach

above the table, I had grabbed

grapes in handfuls. I thought

of them on the vine: naturally

bunched, naturally bountiful.

Now with each burst, I think

of bodies growing on distant

soil, skin that has withstood

salt and sea, the globe

that Mama’s hands nestled

between my teeth.