Molly Gone Cold Poem by Michael Ashby

Slipped into a solution of clear
and teary white,
those egg-soaked left-over waters.
It's a vessel or a test subject,
a body plunged into
salt and soil dissolved.
Are the results as you planned?
Or did life itself turn belly-up
gargling the spices, irritating the throat
closing in rapid contractions sending shock waves
through the cities and skies.
Each subject envies the deaf
and fears the mute,
and the salt brings out the suburbs in me.