Somehow, even though I live in a sea town,
memorizing chanteys that old men passed down
to lull us to sleep while our feet tapped under

the covers, I couldn’t bear to hear the screams
from the dented pot after we’d throw in that day’s
catch.  It was the heat rushing through their shells;

they felt no pain.  I recall strong brown arms
and songs leaping up like hairs as my father
and his father dipped me into the bay in white

cotton.  Later I was an agile otter, breaking
shells on my belly, a sleek, slick woman child
with pixie eyes.  It is no surprise that fish heads

and coarse rope became a suitor’s flowers.
We’d love to feel the bait and tug of ugly creatures
nibbling our wares.  It never occurred what

we were doing was wrong. Salty hairs rose
off our stomachs when we sprawled, two starfish
learning how to navigate a messy moon lit bed.

Now, when I meet you on a Saturday night, ask
my husband to tuck our last oyster in, we sip
drinks with a salty edge and eat hot meatless

meals that won’t harm a living thing. This fierce
unspeakable love we have become.
                        

When you have a secret, it travels with you to London.
You ask the sleepy night watchman where
you can refrigerate your syringes. He winks,
wonders why you do not appear high. When

you see a woman stumble on the pavement, you ask
if she needs help. She is brusque, says “this city
needs help, all these broken sidewalks.”

Meanwhile, your friend struggles to keep up.
You queue endlessly to prove you can outdo
your last undiagnosed trip. You start an affair
with the same night porter who guards your habit.

Outside the V and A, you wonder why you got there
before it opens again, and whether the woman
in the scarf is undergoing chemo.

You wonder will a stranger still want to part your lips
with his tongue if he knew you were holding back.
You are numb today, actually. Sometimes
this mystery comes and goes. You should save
your feelings for the one who loves you anyway.