This Hill by Lauren Goulette (18)

My grandma carries salt in her purse --
Seventy-five years and no wound-ups
in the hospital. An oil-tanker spilled down
I-94 when her collarbone shifted like
some kind of western fault. Two sprays at dawn
and two in the evening — nasally vinegar-brine up
my cavities push down my spine. Food
is always salty. Let me wonder how long

until my prescription is ready. Sometimes I smoosh
them down deep into the crinkled
plastic bag. Red thank you’s melt closer
To the earth. Shove them underneath the
kitchen sink until I feel guilty enough to
Throw the whole wad away. Sweeping
Or to hear glass breaking --
my nerves are fizzling beneath my throat. I
Won’t breath the same air as you for months
while my meals are satiable. They would
not thank me if I take the bus up
one stop, to get looks of acidic disdain.
I would rather
carry blocks of salt up
this Hill anyway.




Lauren Goulette is an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Wisconsin-Madison studying creative writing, her work has been seen in The Pluvia Review, The Apprentice Writer, Glass Gates, and others.