Gate Refused Salt

The mouth is gone—sealed hard, salt fused to glass. Nothing gets in. Not even me. I forced runoff from the city into the clay before it dried—a water you’d never drink, full of grit and ash, pollen from the trams, the memory of copper along old rails. Marseille poured itself in despite me, made its own marks. They show up where I can’t control them—at the foot, in stains that rise and fade. I kept pressing shards into the rim, sharper than I planned, until the edge felt like a place you’d cut yourself trying to force entry. I think of invitations withdrawn. Gates that close before you reach them. I think of standing outside, hearing other voices through stone. The vessel holds nothing now but denial. Is that a kind of presence? I left one fleck of brine-blue in the crust. Not a sign, not a way through. Just what the city left behind, where I couldn’t reach to remove it.