Guana Bay
bludgeoning heat. susurrus natal sounds
only heard in water. the slap back
of tide salting the head
like first rites—everything a ritual
i offer myself another self
one that glides noiselessly off the coast
into the frothing surf for further seeing
undarkened by memory, prophecy
the heavy hand of another changeling summer
i corroborate this other self in shorn ends
new scents rubbed into the hollow behind my ears
late july & the body anchors itself to warmth
& the earnest desire to shave a moment down to its heart-stuff
to call each sea by its born name, glottal & coveted
here there is no you, no unmaker to speak of
i suffer my exile like a long night without breeze
kick down the sheets to sleep with the window open
the worst part about love is how i remember it
denaturing everything it touches
turning the craggy shore to salt