The Maynard
Spring 2015

J. Adam Collins


Everything he touched
turned to salt—
               the crushing crest of his hair;
               crimpled leafing starchy texts;
even the ground,
his fingers plunged down,
turned to salt in time.
Everything he made
turned to salt—
               backyard brick barbeque;
               children begetting grandchildren.
He could never finish the mortar,
feverish heart pumping
               a birdhouse, a cardboard box,
a vow—salt.
Everything he saw
turned to salt.
               The dog’s hair—salt;
               the lace garter—salt;
               the snow bank—salt;
irrigated row after row of corn—salt.
Everything he wrote,
every word he spoke,
turned to salt.
Butchered bright red on the countertop,
the meat would keep all winter.
               But when the time came
turned to salt
he would mix with water
and sprinkle ’round the altar.