“Common” by Julie Lariosu

I confess, I am salacious.
That is, in a salted state.
That is, salax, meaning constantly in love.
Much like a Roman pigeon mistaken for a turtledove,
cooing Come along come along.

It’s a hot summer in Rome
where guests, given salt, lick it,
like it, put some in their left pockets.
One day, underground, I see lemons
painted on a lemon tree. I see a blue sky.

Besotted, I become a bride and subject to division.
This is the land where bridal shoes get salted,
so next, I am bedded. And for awhile all colors brighten.
I bloom like a cut flower, I stay fresh longer.
All the dark stains lift.

But I am changing, my cells drift
toward any cool water. I drink
and I take many lovers, love them all.
Gossips call me unstable, and it’s true,
some chemical is missing. I am reduced to my metal,
at any moment I might burst into flames,
I find it difficult to transmit impulses.

Until one day a Frenchman from a folk tale
tells me I am common,
that I contribute to his hypertension,
and though I love him, waves flood me,
flood the lemon tree, and my husband catches us.
I get up from the bed. I cross the ocean.

In my new home, I spend the autumn cleaning copper.
Then winter comes, so I lie down in the road
outside my house, melting all the snow.
And my neighbors thank me.