If My Body
If my body is an illness,
then my bones are a tangle of sea trash
plastic six- pack that chokes the bottlenose.
This migration is muddled ocean,
weed beached in clumps
that dissolves in mouthfuls.
The cure is a blade
that severs mussel from shell
as well as his hand that holds it.
His hand split beneath the shell,
its blood in the water and the dark
shape that tastes it.
The next time he
points out the hair on my legs is
growing back I’ll remind him
this my body, it is not his home
the ocean isn’t his,
he is a guest, warning him
I can pull back the tangle of sea trash and
spit him out.