Offering

Dec 12 2015

She greeted me with bread and salt.

Grain, gleaned from the fields,

the rock we eat.

That seasons hunger, thickens blood.

That tearing-up, running-down

anoints the tongue.

That pours fire

into open cuts;

knife plunged, handle slapped.

That preserves food, yet corrupts drink,

turning sweet-water

to brackish brine.

And the yeasty earth of bread,

its density, crumble, sponge;

the comfort food

that leaves you filled.

Except with her, only thirstier,

mouth parched

voice rasped.

But this is how one welcomes guests;

lovers and friends

strangers from a distant land.

The precious grain,

bursting with seed, concealed germ.

The gritty crystal

its dull impurities.

She ushers you into her tent,

the warm light of flame

spilling out.

A fragrant bowl

with which to wash,

her offering

of bread and salt.

So you swallow hard.

And join with her

in giving thanks.

Bread and salt is a traditional greeting. (In fact, salt was so valuable in the ancient world -- before they discovered it could be cheaply mined, rather than evaporated from sea water -- that it forms the basis for "salary": in Rome, one could be paid in salt.) I'm picturing something like a Bedouin tent, or some arid steppe in Afghanistan: in either case, a culture steeped in a tradition of unreserved hospitality, of unquestioning welcome to the stranger.

The poem is full of contradiction and switch-backs. I want the reader to feel a bit disoriented, whip-sawed this way and that. Because I think that this complexity, inconsistency, and unknowability has a lot to do with the human condition. So I'm hoping the reader wonders, at the end, just who "she" is: servant? ...seer? ...lover? Poisoner, perhaps?