I have written this story two thousand and six times,
never perfect, only half-truths that make me want to
hide inside boat engines and hum.

There is a fish hook in my left eye,
trying to be a simile, but not quite as loud as the SOS
calls I have coming out,
all over.  

I am not supposed to smoke cigarettes anymore,
or kiss you on the lips
on the street.
But hey, what the hell!
I do it anyway

because we’re always hungry at the same time
as each other. One hour apart. I think it’s a lighthouse signal
we both missed because we’ve been hanging from these cliffs
with cut feet for six weeks and I want to save you but I can’t speak
the right words.

He laughs at us, the lighthouse man, he rubs sea-salt
into our wounds and has a Bible in his pocket.
He cackles at our swollen hearts
and points at no entry street signs and I want to save you
but I can’t speak.   

So I wait inside your pores instead
with an umbrella in one hand,
and fish sticks in the other, hoping that it will be enough
because I want to save you
but I can’t.