In my bedroom you arrive to me
by tugboat, holding a mangled fish.
This is the last tuna, we will lay it out
on a long table, raw,
we will light candles.
How do I square my body away,
scramble the calculator on my scalp,
leave my mind unfinished?
I sit in your boat like a honeycomb,
a slow drip. Imagine baseball bats, imagine long guilt.
Sometimes the only solution is to cut off the hands.
Between the stuttering fat of the last tuna
and the folding water
we peel the skin away and take a bite.