SPIT ❋ Nathan Masserang

I love to spit.
I spit whenever I feel like it.

I’m ten years old
running into the mall
in the pouring rain
and a woman with a cigarette
as long as my arm
sees me spit.

She says
that’s filthy
you’re filthy
and the words
get caught in my throat
and I spit.

It’s a careful gesture.

My cheek tenses
and tongue does something wild
against my teeth
and I kiss the air backwards.

I’m thirty-three
my husband loves me
and he asks
why do you spit
please stop

I go to kiss him
and the habit comes forth
and I kiss him backwards.
And our house
our dog
the whole block
watches me spit harder than ever
an uninterrupted flow of saliva,
a loved dam.

Cars flow down the street
the neighborhood runs to their roofs
my husband is crying
and gone
the viscous waves
flooding the sidewalk
and moving him further
and his voice closer.

But I’m not thirty three.
I don’t own a home
and I still spit.

And the woman with the long cigarette
a tiny wingless cherub on my shoulder.