The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: tether & lung by Kimberly Ann Priest

---

Saturdays

Sometimes we made pickles. Packed them tight,
poured brine, hot and salty—the kitchen soft with steam.

We cut each new batch by hand, knife sliced toward
the body, a clean half-cautious swipe. My husband

was quicker and crueler in all his calculations—
the edge of that blade like syllables severing soul-flesh leaving

tiny tugs of unseen grief. Ghosts are visible
on very rare occasions; the first time he waved the weapon

my direction, we were slicing pickles. He was careful
to keep the handle steady—quarter the fruit with its seeds.

---