a child made of sugar and salt __________________________________ there was a child made of sugar and salt; too sweet to live, too seasoned to die. i. he was shaped in the hush between offerings—fingers dusted with crushed sugarcane, bones laced with sea-aged salt. the midwives did not name him. he simply bowed, hands trembling. the villagers whispered blessing, the priests murmured debt, and somewhere between the two, the child opened their eyes—clear as morning frost. ii. when the rain came, he stepped into it without hesitation. the sky opened its mouth, slowly, reverently. he didn’t flinch, didn’t shiver. he tilted his head back and smiled, as if remembering something older than language. the storm drank him inch by inch, not out of hunger, but longing. iii. now, only a trace of sweetness clings to the earth—grit beneath the tongue, a shimmer in the fields after downpour. some say the taste lingers in the air before dawn, like a forgotten hymn. not quite sorrow, not quite syrup. just something sacred that was never meant to stay.
