by Caroline Crew

How much of you have I swallowed by now—
saltwater, cicada wing, semen. Spring, you whisper.

Have I taken enough seed to sprout, was I always
a green child or am I now just finding my depths,

emergent. Dawn does us the convenience of repetition
the same song, the same swallow. The light tastes

like brine. A simpler way to gloss a salt of the earth
kind of guy is that the earth has swallowed him,

and he has mined his own back—mineral by mineral—
acid tears, spit, his mother’s own ossified milk.