3 s a l t I want a box with a hinged lid, a box I can fit my whole hand into. I want to feel my coarse temper filtered through fingertips. sea. table. Road. Rock. Kosher. I want to overdo, to pucker you, to make the juices rise from all over the stove, drawn to over-seasoned places. I will raise your blood pressure. I will carry remnants in my pockets, surprises from the twenty pounds I broadcast melting pockmarks across the icy driveway. I will follow you as I do the trucks, forgetting my way, drawn to the rhythm of the fanning crystals nicking bumpers, eating paint. take me home before we freeze. Once inside, I will taste invisible powder on my tongue and track your waffled patterns across the hardwood floors. ...