Everything We Know Is Soup Skin
The rain pans us of our salt. Our precious salt.
That measure of our worth.
We could all be rich Romans.
The rain pans the soil of its salt. Its poisonous salt.
That vicious herbicide.
We invented the salting of Carthage,
and see sea stacks
as lost proof of Lot’s marital strife.
The rain pans the earth of itself
as torrents create caverns
in the heavily salted Southwest.
Gravity pulls the stilled water toward ocean or through cracks
of limestone to hollow out caves so close to magma it boils.
Time pans away everything.
Everything we know is soup skin.
All our mountains and caverns, forests, deserts—
soup skin cooled
on the burning core of molten metal which spins
a magnetic force field around our tilted globe roped in solar orbit.
Every action starts a slippery slope
to a universe unrecognizable.
Or continues a path to a future of further unknowns.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 55 | Spring/Summer 2020