The Scent of Salt

The scent of salt
caresses the curve of the land—
far from the sea,
on a lifted plateau,
here where the continent
reaches down like a fleshy thigh
above calf and foot
and toes that tickle
the northern edge of South America.

The salty wind
travels across land and millennia,
arriving here—
2315 meters above the sea.

As I walk, I see the ocean
through contours of layered memory
across the landscape.
And in the sky,
a conch shell floats,
perfect, then dissolving
into a wind-whipped wisp.

A swordfish approaches
a whale with tail upturned.

A swimmer floats on his back,
right arm extended,
pushing back mountains,
kicking feet
stirring up the heavens.

The seductive scent of salt
rides each gust
while the earth's lofty waters
darken into night.

—Lorena Wolfman (2021, 2025)