Ritual Salt

Where is the salt?
I neeed those brightsharp krystals
hot to my rugged smoooooth tongue
hot to my wounds
Pure
salt distilled from
tears from blood, sprinkled
by earthenware fingers
to sift through the skull
to form grey drifts
of grit amid the crenellations
and the trelliswork
of non-
specific sections
of my brain.
To burn my tongue to stain
the lungs to sting the gut
to dry the blood
and rot the bones.
I must atone I am alive
and well they're not.
I have been told it's not my fault
yet still I need the taste of salt.