She walks upon the moonlit ocean, dancing on these pillars of sharpened salt, every step a glow. She is the very measure, pressed so gently between shine and the rollicking waves. That leaning away from translation, the weight of the native tongue so substantial. This is what we imagine, bound by landlocked walls. This is just the spell, the forgetful trust of words.
It boils down to sugar and salt, to organs turned to glue or caramel. The secret sweetness of that most simple of prayers. The hospitality of love and larder, the loaf thick with butter, the table small and earnest. The recognition of divinity only found in restless flesh. Appetite always only another word for direction.
The skies all turn, startled darkness and dreamy clouds. Warm winds and cold snaps, nations paced and bewildered. She wanders always just out of sight. We huddle together adrift on distant shores, clinging to our smoky fires. Salt cleans our eyes, brushes our lips. Smoke scours our throats while we stare out past the horizon, as weary as ghosts and cold to the bone. We watch for her as we drowse and freeze, as she dances out our dreams.