Lanterns of Salt

Lanterns of Salt

I keep them on the sill—

small jars of ocean,

rimed with yesterday’s weather.

By morning, they frost into stars,

salt constellations clinging

to the glass like stubborn prayers.

I strike a match to memory.

The crystals take the light

and turn it honest—

bright, but stinging.

You left your footprints

half a mile from the harbor.

Tide translated them to rumor,

then to nothing,

the way grief edits itself

until only the verbs remain:

Went, stayed, ached.

At night, I carry a jar

down to the waterline.

It glows from the inside—

a lighthouse I can hold

without saving anyone.

I tip it to the waves.

The light dissolves cleanly,

a soft unfastening,

as if forgiveness were mineral,

as if love could return to solution

and still be loved.

When I walk back,

My palms taste like weather.

On the sill, the other jars breathe—

small moons, patient with the dark,

teaching me how to shine

without forgetting to burn.