The August Visitor

Men down at the invisible
dock are wrapping our fishy dinner
in yesterday’s
news. Your eyes are
too blue. I’ve drowned before. Have I told you

this story? About
the shining in knight
armor who raped me in the church and
threw my bones to the sea
when he was done. Have I told

you that I healed myself
with mint and seaweed and other
little girls’ nightmares. I wove
my muscles and veins with the salt
I found on
cadaverous cheeks. Kiss

me. I won’t taste of halibut
till after we’ve had our dinner. I can’t
cook. I only met you once, so I have no
idea if you can. What
can you do? Tell me your life. Paint
it on my walls, and breathe it into
my lungs. I emptied

a drawer for you to put
your thoughts in, and I put
a toothbrush for you to scrub
away my screaming midnights. I can’t share

my bed. Everyone’s
skeleton is