little salt

 I climb the steps of our old bus and push the metal frame of the cracked glass folding door lightly.

Our bus is shaped like a whale.

I think about being inside the belly of a whale.

It is dark.

I see the shapes and shadows of our backpacks, with all of the belongings we have in the world.

It is quiet.

I hear echoes of the world around me, small parts of quiet sounds of life and work of migrant workers on Johns Island farms.

It is peaceful.

I remember the words of a poem about things to do in the belly of the whale.

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.

Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires

with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.

Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.

Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way

for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review

each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments

of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.

Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound

of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.

Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,

where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all

the things you did and could have done. Remember

treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes

pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

(Dan Albergotti)

I sit down on the ground in the belly of my whale.

A feeling settles down beside me as the dawn settles on the earth.

Gently with light.

I ask myself the question of The People.

Who am I?

"Little Salt," says my abuelo, “You are salt. You are light. You are made of the ground."

That’s who I am

Little salt.

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020