my fingers hover over the East Coast.
Names of places blur together, images blur together,
I know what happened, I know what happened,
my voice can lift above the blur, I can sing, I can sing,
I can sing about you
and me at the lighthouse–the trip
to an artist’s colony somewhere on the East Coast.
The plums I let rot rolled down the street.
The expensive sandwich shop turned you away.
Then the place that was my surprise, the place was my surprise,
surprise, surprise! Here’s more of your anger
when I don’t live up to the other woman
in your head, surprise
surprise, the lighthouse looms
as we walk down to the water
a woman tells us
she collects lighthouse experiences, tallies them
on an extensive field guide
I want to tell her I don’t know where I am
when I am in the boat of your anger
the lighthouse itself small, suffocating,
I won’t go there, up there to the top,
he says
my body is too big,
says over last night’s dinner no one
wants tits all stretch-marked out,
edits travel photos to hide the size
of my stomach, has become so embarrassed
by my body I can’t,
I can’t
go up there
the humiliation
the attempt
his anger growing
sun burning reflecting
off white walls
this was supposed to be my special
my safe this was supposed to be
this was supposed to be
I want to tell her I don’t know where I am
surprise he said
to the lighthouse
he said
surprise