Salt Cellar

The kitchen is cold and the morning is thin,

showing the places where the years get in.

My sister leans down for her daughter’s shoe,

a simple movement she’s required to do.

The wool of her sweater slips off to the side,

revealing the ridge she usually tries to hide.

The skin is like paper, translucent and wet,

stretched over a secret we haven't told yet.

That hollow of bone, that sharp, sudden dip,

looks like a cup that might easily slip.

A salt cellar carved from the frame of the chest,

where the weight of the breathing is put to the test.