Salt Season

Mother's hands knew salt kills frost -

worked it into ground as dawn broke,

like burying small wars.

I watched her shake crystals

over ice-teeth thirty years,

her shadow cutting sunrise

into garden-sized pieces

while beans froze black anyway.

The morning her fingers failed,

she cursed bones, not winter.

Dropped the shaker in dirt

still frozen from last night's loss.

Didn't cry. Just stood there,

staring at her useless hands

like they belonged to someone else.

Now I walk these empty rows

before light breaks.

Not because anything grows.

Not because salt works.

But because my shoulder knows

the exact angle of defeat

her arm made, throwing

crystal weapons at the sky.

Still find myself here some dawns,

shaking salt over nothing,

watching it catch light

like all her scattered prayers.

Like teeth breaking

in a mouth too proud

to close.