Salt and Light
eric sheranko
We burned a witch
in the parking lot behind McDonald’s
off Fourth and Elm;
the grist mill behind us,
clotted atherosclerosis plaque
trailer-lined arteries of the creek.
It wasn’t one of those
24-hour-all-day-bacon-egg-and-cheese joints
and James only had sodium-free salt
from his mom in the trunk,
so we smashed the window,
vaulted the counter
to where they keep the
ketchup and
plastic lids for the
plastic cups in
plastic holders,
and dragged him
to the handicap-spot-salt-packet-circle,
lit the flame.
I still think about it
when a Big Mac sticks in my throat,
how we went about our lives the next day,
unsure what happened at all.
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